Take My Hand and Take My Whole Life Too
by AsMuchAsIEverCould
Summary: Ace knew that one day he'd have to enter the Games as his brother, even without training, muscle or any real skill at killing like the others. It was inevitable. But Ace has a bigger advantage than any of those Capitol junkies, one that's actually useful.
1. Chapter 1

**This story will be multi-chaptered. Thanks to anyone that reads and reviews, it means a lot seeing as I never get any **_**ever**_**, but here we go.**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

When choosing books, Ace's eyes immediately skipped over the skimpy novels that he knew his brother had already read and appreciated. His nails trailed the threadbare bindings and came to loom over a promising story, on it a forked, cobblestone road as the cover.

There was something innately personal about used books, turning pages that other licked-fingertips had flipped and reading the lines that other eyes had scanned. But new ones, hot off the press and still having a fresh, crisp smell of parchment clinging to their seams, never held the same character as the frayed, butchered ones with ethereal beauty. He'd been lucky to find this area of the book shop. To have no sound but the shuffling of wrinkled pages was a rarity in District Two—not that there was going to be much talk today, of course. That day, the silence hung heavy in the air.

"Brickham!"

Ace turned slowly, unsurprised, to see his hindrance of an uncle block the exit.

"Hello, Peter," he said coolly, not bothering in an attempt to side-step the cranky relative.

His uncle's profoundly contoured face tightened. "_I said no more books!_"

"But I'm your _nephew_, Peter."

This was, on the whole, a rather stupid thing to say to Peter, and although Ace knew this, he couldn't help but mention it anyway, just to watch the reaction.

"I don't need reminding," Peter yelled, and he tried unhappily to snatch the book from Ace's hand, a task which was deflected by deft skill on the small teenager's part. "You can't pay for the damn book, why should you have it?"

"You know very well why I can't pay for it, and you also know it could be the last blasted book I read to the poor guy, too."

Peter's face, if possible, softened at the mention of this, and his wrinkled forehead smoothed out with little effort.

"Fine then," he said miserably, letting Ace pass, "just this once! And you had better be at work tomorrow."

"You know I will," Ace said in a sing-song voice, and Peter gave him a withering look.

With a collected expression on his face, Ace strolled out of _Peter's Books_, leaving his only uncle alone again with nothing but ink and paper to comfort him.

-.-

The sky was a melted color of red and yellow, and a small crack of daybreak poked above the horizon-line. He tried to stay focused on his visible rooftop, which was mingled in with others down the street, but devilish curiosity spiked him, and he cut the corner at the end of the sidewalk, taking a shortcut to the town square where Capitol Peacekeepers were painting a stage white and setting up large jumbotron screens. Just as Ace had suspected, he was not the only one with morbid curiosity. Other children were gathered there, staring vacantly at the workers and mumbling harshly to one another. Ace smiled. They were all so predictable, every one of them.

Many of the people present were wearing their red jumpsuits, having just got the day off from training at The Shift, a private center where future Careers trained for the games—that is if you had enough money for it, which was ninety-nine point eight seven percent of the District, including Ace. They all knew each other well, grew up together, and trained from day one with only a few hours of free time a week. The worst part was that they _liked_ one another—as much as people competing can—and enjoyed the company. But in more ways than not, it wasn't the physical activities they should have been worried about.

Ace rolled his eyes. No, they were all arrogant Capitol-junkies who were too high off their own glory to see the actual task at hand. The physical training that consumed lo those many years of their life meant nothing if they did not know who they were up against. If it had been him working there, he'd be more focused on learning his possible opponent's weaknesses. There was no time for making friends, and they were all wasting their fortunes by worrying about how big their muscles were.

"Hi, Ace!" said a squeaky voice.

He turned slowly to see two figures in red uniforms.

"Oh," he said dejectedly, "it's you."

Sherri's cheeks colored red by his comment, and she hunched her shoulders some. Ace pretended not to notice, because he really didn't care.

"Hello, Brickham," said the other girl, whose name escaped him. She had a cold face that Ace didn't like, and he could distinctly remember her being one of the many girls that owned a large part of the foreign-to-them land, District Twelve—a child of high society.

"Ah—hello," he mumbled. Ace couldn't for his life figure out why they were talking to him.

"Listen," Sherri said hopefully, her breath hitching, "I was wondering if you would like to get some lunch before the Reaping begins. I mean, I can understand if you want to spend it with your family and all, but you know if you _want_ to, I know a place downtown that has great tortilla chips, and it would be really wicked if—"

"What's the place called?" Ace interrupted her.

Sherri suddenly smiled, her face literally glowing with red-stained cheeks. "Trinity's."

Ace couldn't figure out why she was giving him this information at all, especially at such an odd time. He wasn't even hungry, and since when did she care when or where he ate lunch?

"I'll check it out some time," he told her, turning around to examine the stage, which was now being crowded by more Capitol Governors.

Sherri, who had the most bewildered expression of her face that Ace had ever seen on a person, mumbled desolately, "Bu—I—yeah. Yeah, you do that…" She turned and left.

The nameless girl stepped forward. She looked even colder than before. "Are you that much of a heartless bastard, or are you just ignorant beyond belief in the category of social interaction?"

Ace, stony faced, and said rather lazily, "Hardly." His green eyes roamed her, taking it all in, and when they caught the sight of her pendent, he smiled. "It's obvious from your necklace that you have a lover back home that you met at training, and you're completely mad for her, but you know what? She's getting worried about you. How many times is your name entered, yeah? Once? Twice? That's hardly something to worry about, you stupid girl. Obviously she thinks that you're going to _volunteer_. By why would you that? Fame? Glory? I can tell from the badge on your chest that you're only a stage one career—not very impressive if you ask me. You hardly have a chance of winning, so what, if not _who_, is your motivator? How many times is—Elaine's her name right?—Elaine entered into the Reaping? She's a commoner. I've seen her, yet you don't talk about her much at all, and we both know what that means around here. Because your parents don't approve. Whether that because she's a girl or because she's poor is considerable, but probably the latter. No one really cares about the first anymore, anyways. So she's poor. One of the few here in District One. That means she lived down in the Field. Probably makes a living off of sewing clothes like most other people down there. Maybe makes a few coins a day. She'll need the extra food. Her names entered in there a lot, isn't it?"

The girl just stared, dumbfounded and flushed, and after a moment of hesitation, mumbled a quick goodbye and left.

-.-

He reached the farmer's porch that wrapped around his home less than ten minutes later, the thick soles of his boot crunching small helpings of gravel around their mother's flower garden. On the outside the one-story home looked crowded and dreary, doors hanging off of loose bolts and shingles chipping off the side of the house. It wasn't as if the Brickhams didn't have enough money to fix it, just that no one could be bothered to try, and Ace certainly didn't care what the house looked like to the passersby. The door creaked loudly when he pushed it open.

"Darling!" his mother said, clearly just woken up. A mug of coffee was pressed into her left hand, and her bathrobe hung loose over a floral nightgown. She'd always had a shrewd, knowing look to her, but at that moment her face was unusually blank.

"Hello," he said back, hanging his coat on the rack. "How's Noah?"

His mother wrung her hands. "Same as always, dear."

Ace had expected no less. "Are you ready for the Peacekeepers?"

"Bunker is all stocked up; Dear, but you know them. They hardly come around this neck of the woods. He will be safe."

"Why would they need to?" Ace muttered, but his mother ignored it.

"I left out a suit on your bed when you're ready to get dressed. Green vest to match those pretty eyes of yours."

He rolled his eyes. "Mmm." Compliments were a specialty of his mother's, but they were always for other people, like her husband or for Noah, never himself; he suspected this was because she was worried for him. It always happened this time of year, where he'd wake up to morning coffee, bagels, and toast with jam, or he'd get days off of work from the bookshop for unnecessary personal time. The odds weren't exactly stacked against him, but the possibility of going into the Games in the persona of his brother was just as possible as going as himself. He hated their pity, because it was strong, a mistake, and _obvious_. Being that emotional about it would have made no difference to the Capitol; they were going to take him either way. Ace chose not to make the error of feeling a long time ago.

Besides, one day after this was all over, she would go back to her thin-lipped, tight-faced self, bitterness leaking out of every word, and every breath he took would be at cost. Not that he cared much.

In the adjacent room, Noah was lying down on the old mattress; one that used to be Ace's but was donated for a better cause. He could hear the grunts and soft moans of pain echoing off the stone walls of their cottage. No matter what they did those sounds never really left him, and he could still feel the vibrations sink deep into his bones and shake his spine with discomfort.

"How are you, Noah?" he asked, taking the loveseat next to him. He didn't need to ask, but Noah had always felt uncomfortable when Ace analyzed him.

Noah rolled over to face his brother. He had always looked uncannily like Ace did, right down to every last feature, whether it was the freckles on their noses or the angle of their all-too prominent cheek bones.

He coughed and then smiled. "Perfect."

"Liar," Ace accused, and then fluffed the pillow over which rested Noah's head.

"You shouldn't be here," Noah said throatily. "You need to get ready for the Reaping."

"I don't care about the damn Reaping."

"You should be. Aren't you scared?"

"Of a bunch of brawny morons? Of course not. Their arrogance is always confused with wisdom, and it's humiliating."

He laughed.

"What?"

"You aren't the most humble person in the world—to put it charitably, Ace," he mumbled. "Like a robot. Need to adapt to human life every once and a while."

"Am not," Ace said.

"Are too! You're so proud. Just like 'em. And yet I still have to remind you of stupid everyday things like who's the president and the difference between expository and narrative writing."

"I don't care for literature or politics, Noah. What difference does it make if we're being governed by President Winston or a giant Birds of Paradise flower? Not the slightest. We'd still be going into the Games, and I'd still be pretending to be Noah Brickham instead of little old Ace, and I still wouldn't care about Politics."

"But it's the President! How could you _not_ know?"

Ace didn't know whether to be hurt or angry, but his brother had a sheepish visage, so he avoided the subject all together. "I brought a new book for Peter's. Old nut."

"You shouldn't be mean to the man. He seems lonely. Maybe we should visit him."

"Well maybe the old bat wouldn't be lonely if he wasn't such a bitter little—"

Noah cackled. "Oh, because you have so much experience in the friends department, right?" he teased playfully.

"_I _don't need friends, and frankly there is no one I would want to be friends with in this District—besides you," he added quickly.

"I'm the closest thing you have to a friend, Ace, and that's a relative, and from the looks of it, even then some of your family doesn't like you."

"Peter's old and cranky."

"You give him a reason to be."

"Do you want the story or not, Noah?"

Noah shifted on his bed. "What is it called?"

"Looks like…_Secondhand Heart_. Ew."

"Sounds girly," he sniffed. "Go ahead."

Ace laughed and started on the first page, kicking his feet up against the frame of the bed. He often peeked over the top of the book to look at Noah, who was continually showing signs of weariness, yawning and drooping eyes. After a while of laughter from the ridiculous prose, Ace slowed down, trying to make his voice low and calm to help Noah fall asleep. His brother rarely got any rest, despite having to spend all day in bed. Purple marks rested underneath his lids, which stuck out strongly with his unhealthily white pallor. Ace didn't know what he did all day, but there was a strong probability that he worried.

Love was a powerful motivator, he knew that. Read about it. Love made his brother tired and sleepy, and love made his mother sing and dance and give out stupid compliments no one really cared for, but she still did it. Apparently love was stronger than bitterness and hatred and evil, but he'd never seen it in action until then, where his brother—who, mind you, had enough to think about without the Games—stayed in bed all day and worried about the family. So much that when Ace really did come home, he was too exhausted to even speak. Ace didn't want to admit it, but he thought that it was rather stupid of Noah to even care. He was only going to make himself more sick with the sleepless nights and constant frets.

Noah's breath eventually evened out, and Ace heard the comforting sound of his brother's snoring. Quietly, he put the book down and tip-toed out of the room, shutting off the light as he went. Just as promised, his mother had laid out a suit across his bedspread. Ace shrugged out of the clothes he was wearing and slipped on the silky fabric. It felt odd against his skin.

His mother really cracked a smile at him when he erupted from his room. She patted him on the back, and then after an awkward moment of silence, enveloped him into a hug. _This is wrong_, he told himself. _This is uncharted territory. This is—uhm_. Ace didn't hug her back. His arms, though twitching undecidedly, stayed flaccid at his sides.

And then she did something that surprised him even more—"I love you. And your brother loves you."

Silence.

"You're not going to get picked," she seemed to reassure herself. "It'll be fine. I expect you for dinner, I do."

"Of course. Don't be stupid." It came out harsher than he expected, and then to redeem himself, he mumbled, "Love you too, Ma."

Her fingers raked through his raven hair and were gone as soon as they appeared.

"Don't forget that the Peacekeeper will be by soon. Sometime in the next ten minutes you need to get Noah in the bunker and _make sure_ it's locked, do you hear me?"

His other nodded softly. Strands of her white-blond hair fell elegantly into her face.

With one last look towards his brother, who was sleeping soundly with an indolent smile playing on his lips, he left the house. The loud sound of his shoes hitting the hardwood was the last thing he heard.

-.-

The District from which Ace originated, District Two, was largely known as being the Careers, the pets of the government. It rose in the so-called "loving" hands of the Peackeepers and therefore kept high standards. They made tools and funded those military addicts. In turn, the Peacekeeprs didn't do a very good job of searching the people's homes in case they didn't come to the Reaping, a decision on their part which resulted in many people's absences. Usually this would work. The district was rather large, and there was a slim chance of a few commoners getting picked, but if by some small chance one got selected and neglected their "responsibility" to show-up, the consequences worsened. No one really knew the Capitol did to those people, but they usually ended up the first ones dead, whether they had trained to be a Career and could or not. When that happens, new Peacekeepers are chosen. No one really misses them much.

Downtown had changed a lot since Ace saw it last. Clusters of people sat rigidly in their seats, which were lined up in straight rows. A long red carpet, as if this were some kind of celebrity march, was laying down the middle of the chairs, a dividing line of sorts for the boys and the girls. No one failed to notice that is was a morbidly blood-red color.

Ace sat alone between two boys of whom he'd never met. They were both a few inches taller and broader. People like them, with the vacant expression in their eyes, were the ones who volunteered. Those were the idiots, some of which were lined up on the stage as victors. Careers are expected to volunteer at an attempt to win fame, and a lot of them do. Part of the reason why the Games weren't interesting to watch was because it was nearly always a contestant from One or Two that won. They were favored because they make what the Capitol needs, tools, and weapons, and armory. Nothing would change that.

The air reeked of gasoline and oil, two odors which loomed mercilessly from the factory a couple blocks down called the Nut. It blended in nicely with the other buildings, all black, and massive, and intimidating. Most people covered their nose and mouth with a sleeve or their collar to block out the fumes. Ace did the same in more of an attempt to seem incognito rather than because it was bothering him.

Ace stayed blasé-faced as the video of the Rebellion played, and a little symbol declaring this the sixty-eighth Hunger Games popped up at the end as a new little feature. It was only when Fae—a respectably short and orange-haired woman—brandished the fishbowl like container that was filled with names did he pay attention.

The woman selected was Anastasia Rickshire, the girl whom he'd spoken to earlier, the girl Sherri had been with…

_Huh_, thought Ace. _Interesting_.

She walked up slowly, face sorely red and eyes shining. The only surprising aspect was that no one offered to take her place, not even Elaine, the supposed lover. She stood solitary just the same, right in front of the previous victors. Out of the twenty-nine that originated from here, only fifteen were still alive.

Fae took the other bowl in her hands. Many of the men tugged at their collars and jacket sleeves, as if trying to look busy. Ace pursed his lips expectantly.

She unfolded the piece of paper, and Ace was not shocked in the slightest. It was, after all, everything he'd been prepared for. It wasn't him, but it might as well have been.

"Noah Brickham."

Ace, calm and steady, made his way up the stage to where Fae's absurdly wide greeted him.

"Ahh, Noah," she said to him, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. "Please say your name, Darling."

Ace faced the crowd without truly looking at them. None of them ran up and screamed "I volunteer" in his place as every other year. He kept his face low, knowing no one should be able to recognize his true identity that way. It was not a fool-proof plan, but it worked well enough.

"My name is Noah Brickham," he said evenly. "I'm seventeen years old."

**While you're down here, you might as well hit that review button (;**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yes, I'm back. Sorry. This one is a bit shorter than the last, but it seemed like a good place to end it. Hopefully, I can get the next one up soon enough. Thank you to all who read, review, and alert/favorite. It's greatly appreciated!**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

The cameras that followed Ace from the shop roofs could certainly see his face, but not well as long as he kept his head down. He shook Anastasia's hand, who was looking bewildered and sad, and the cameras were soon down. He still didn't dare to look up.

"Ace?" said a quiet voice.

Anastasia was now more than bewildered. Her face had paled, contrasting horribly with the mat of raven hair braided on her head.

Ace growled out his answer of "Yes?" She should know. She should know not to speak his name!

Anastasia looked away towards the staring crowd. "Nevermind."

Fae draped a manicured hand on their backs, nails digging into their flesh, and gave them a none-so-reassuring nod. Two white-clad peacekeepers took them from there. He tried not to look back towards the hoards of people, who were milling around and chatting, slowly leaving the town square. _They're happy. They've the rest of the day off to rest. Maybe even get those tortilla chips I wanted._

Anastasia was crying nearly moments after they were tossed into their rooms. Ace rested lazily on the white-leather sofa and stared at the screen monitoring her. She was awfully skinny, and there was no muscle on her body, rendering her useless in strength unless she used her elbows and knees. There was also the possibility of her being _clever _or _quick_, but given her Career level and their conversation that morning, it was not possible. She even looked scared, and with good reason. In the end, she'd be easy to wipe out—unfortunately.

Soon, Ace was laughing—no cackling—and it had an evil, sick sound, the kind that bubbled to his lips without any effort, the kind that, though twisted, felt good to release, and it didn't stop after one or two of them. By the time he was rolling around on the couch, sides aching and lungs feeling like rubbing sandpaper, the door to his room flew open. A burly Peacekeeper had his brother by the neck.

"Ow—_ow_—_OW_!" Noah complained as the man threw him in with much more force than necessary.

Ace stopped smiling. His wiring limbs tensed, coiled and ready for attack. "Don't touch him!"

The man laughed but obliged, and his mother followed suit after Noah. As soon as he left, Ace rounded on him.

"Noah!" he all but jeered. His little brother was wrapped in a fraying tweed jacket, eyes puffy, and his long dark hair had been tied back into a ponytail. It made him look awfully younger like a child again, who was about to receive a scolding. He winced at the words, but otherwise did not look sorry.

He turned to him mother instead. "How could you bring him here? Do you _want_ to die?" he growled.

"We wanted to see you!" she hissed back with just as much venom.

"Everyone thinks I'm him!"

"And now everyone thinks he's you, so it's alright!"

"They'll get suspicious!"

"No, Ace, they won't."

"Oh, and I suppose you're willing to risk it? Willing to risk Noah or yourself?"

His mother's face hardened. "He wanted to see you, and who was I to deny that?"

Ace turned slowly, gathering up as much nerve as he could. "Noah?" he asked quietly. The rooms didn't even have audio recording, but his voice was unnaturally low as a precaution.

He had tears rolling down his cheeks, that young, _overly-sensitive_ boy. Getting all worked up over nothing!

"I—" Ace didn't know what to say, and for some reason, it bothered him.

Noah tugged him brother into a bone-crushing hug, and Ace couldn't help but reciprocate.

"Please don't die" was all he said.

Ace grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it, kid. Stay healthy, and don't do anything excessively _stupid_."

"No—no of course not."

"You're not seriously crying, are you?"

His brother smiled faintly. "Forgive me."

"I guess I have to."

His mother stepped forward. "Ace, you know Micah and Genevieve will be there, and they'll hide you. I'm sure they can help, and… and just try, Ace. Don't fall out."

The same Peacekeeper hammered down the door and grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks before Ace could react. That didn't seem fair. They were only there for a minute or two. People usually got more than that.

"Don't hurt them," Ace warned, and Noah started to cry entirely—_over-sensitive boy!_ It wasn't the boy-going-on-man crying you usually saw in typical young adults his age, but full-on snot-filled, gasping like a five-year-old sobbing. He tried to grab onto the door handle, but failed.

Ace cursed, but they were already gone. He wasn't surprised that no one else came to see him.

-.-

Ace knew the process of going to the Capitol. He'd been himself with his father as a child, where they went to a science museum, and Ace learned how to make an atomic bomb with common kitchen supplies and a few materials that could be easily stolen from the shops downtown. That had worried his father, obviously, but gave Noah a laugh when reported. Ace wasn't as excited to see it anymore.

He stood in the doorway of the train and stared out to the people and cameras looking back at him, trying to get a sneak-peak at their latest tribute. He thought idly about the people waiting, passing time by imagining their lives, but then he thought, _this is stupid_, forgot what he was creating, and turned to face Anastasia.

"You're an asshole," she told him immediately upon sight, and Ace knew that talking to her was definitely a bad idea. He explored the train instead. Under his feet, it was moving hundreds of miles per hour, and he didn't even feel it.

His eyes scanned the walls of his living quarters upon enter until they came to a lens poking out the side of a nightstand, embarrassingly distinguishable. They Capitol were losing their touch.

He showered and changed out of the uncomfortable suit. It had been his fathers. He didn't know why his mother even kept it. For a long time after that, Ace sat and waited until a knock on his door woke him from a particularly happy reverie.

Anastasia entered. "Hi," she mumbled.

"Hello."

Silence.

"I'm sorry."

Ace considered this. "I expect you are."

She sat at the end of his bed, and Ace felt a strong the need to tell her to move or to kick her away, but he didn't.

"I guess it's better this way. We're older, and that means there will be less kids entered in the Games."

Ace didn't answer, and when the silence got nearly unbearably awkward, she murmured, "Why did you do it?"

Ace just looked at her. He was not in the mood to talk.

"The cameras have no audio," she explained, "and there's no one on this floor. The Avoxes, Fae, and victors left for an early appetizer. Dinner is in an hour."

"Why did I do what?"

She scowled. It made her face look as cold as it had been that morning. Had it only been that morning for sure?

"You know what, you abominable twat, just tell me."

Ace raised an eyebrow at her excessively British insults, and then mumbled, "Oh honestly, why do you think? Is everyone here that incompetent? My brother has always been sickly, and I knew he wouldn't live forever. He's dying, and if so, I would have rathered it be in the comfort of our cottage with my mother catering to his every need and me reading him books until he falls asleep every night—now that will have to be Peter reading them, but still, the thought is the same. He would die in this tournament. That's not how it's going to be. No one's going to know that I'm him—they're all too oblivious and too unsuspicious for that—and I can be out of here in a few weeks to be there again. He'll never get chosen again and be considered a victor, I'll be able to use the money for a better medicine and maybe laboratory construction for myself, and then I'll be of age next year and won't have a chance of getting entered again, and neither would he. I could use to money to cure him. It works out for the best."

"I've never seen him. Do you look alike?"

"Yes," Ace told her honestly. So much alike it scared him to look in a mirror.

She pursed her lips. "And you're that sure you're going to win, Brickham?"

Ace laughed. "Do I sound overly confident?"

"Hm. A bit egocentric, yes," she giggled with him, and then sighed. "You don't look too strong, though. I hope you have a better lead than that."

"Yes. Obviously," Ace murmured.

She had two freckles on her face, just above the arch of her eyebrow. He'd never been close to many people in his district, but she seemed okay. She had a nice personality. She may have yelled at him back home and on the train, but was she over it? Ace didn't really know, and he reminded himself that he didn't care to find out.

She leaned in. "Can I ask you something?"

Ace nodded. "What?"

"Does Fae seem… you know"—Anastasia made a gesture wither hands that somewhat resembled a distorted mouth talking—"pizzazz-y?"

"Pizzazz-y?" he repeated.

"Yeah, you know, she's kind of weird, and frankly she scares me, the things she does. With those nails like claws—ugh!"

Ace just blinked.

Anastasia got the hint. "Anyways, I'll be out at dinner. A few of the precious victors will be joining us to go over tactics, so I guess I'll see you out there, brain boy?"

Ace gave a forced smile and rolled over onto his side. The door closed softly behind him with a thump.

-.-

Dinner was uneventful at first. Four previous victors were allowed to stay back and help them. There was a long, fair-haired girl with glasses and a gawky face, and fifteen-year-old Latino male with curled hair, a slightly devilish expression, and a lean, cat-like posture. The last two of them were dark-skinned males that appeared so much alike, they could have been twins—turns out they were brothers, one of them a year older than the other, and both volunteers. The whole table clapped for them.

Ace stared around the room instead and took in what he saw: expensive chairs and couches; food from all over the country; and lastly, he noticed that the only girl victor was staring quite intently at the Latino boy. It was not desire or longing in her eyes, but mischief. It's the food, Ace realized after a moment. She'd done something to the food, for neither she nor the brothers have taken a bite of their "special victor meal" of chicken breast, rice, white wine, and a plethora of grapes, and the brothers looked at her at the same time. Ace knew what was going to happen a minutes before it did.

The Latino boy took his fork in hand and fished a slice of meat onto the end. He inspected the piece far longer than any person would, had they not been expecting anything, and then he put it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, reaching for another piece.

The other victors stared expectantly, but this Cat just continued to eat, grinning.

The girl stuttered indignantly, interrupting Fae and Anastasia's conversation on Capitol make-up products. "You complete ass, Nye!"

Nye laughed. "Oh, you thought that was going to work, right? Idiots." He tilted his chair on the back two legs; she kicked him, sending him falling backwards onto the hardwood floor. He settled with a noisy clunk.

The younger of the two brothers huffed. "I would have given all the hair on my head to see it work, anyways."

The man was, Ace thought, quite bald.

"But where did it go?"

"Take a guess."

As if on cue, Anastasia, whose visage was hastily switching from its original color to a pale green, gave a throaty noise of complaint and doubled over, knocked out cold. Fae screamed and reached down to help her, and the victors couldn't help but stare in shock, all but one.

Nye stole a glance at Ace and winked.

_**Review!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to KellBellx who reviews most of what I do, haha.**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter, because I certainly enjoyed writing it. And also, I'm sorry it took so long. I had to go to three Graduations this week and an initiation ceremony, all for the sisters. I guess that just comes with this time of the year, being June and whatnot, schools are closing and people are passing. Anyways, here it is, and without further ado…**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

Ace learned a lot about Nye. More than he had really cared to learn, but still.

Nye had a skinny body, his dark clothes and jeans hanging many sizes too big over a small frame. His posture was lean and pather-like in a slouchy way, and his hair didn't completely cover some of the many scars that lined his temples and right cheek. He didn't look particularly strong nor did he look particularly clever, and Ace was left wondering how exactly he could win something like the Hunger Games with such an all around lack of skill. There was perhaps the factor he was small and lanky, so he could have been fast, but it was doubtful.

He laughed wildly for the rest of dinner, staring at the others with a wicked gleam in his eye as two trained Capitol employees fed Anastasia brightly colored liquids in an attempt wake her. He seemed ridiculously _common_ for the most part and didn't look evil apart for the slight mischief in his expression. Nye looked completely and utterly normal.

But it was Ace, after all, who knew everything. And people were not always what they seemed.

With Nye only stopping his cackling every once in a while to stare at Ace, it was almost a relief to have the dinner be called to an end. Every one of the members had to report to the living area to watch over the clips from other district's reapings. Ace didn't fail to notice how Nye tailed him and sat down well into his personal bubble. Like earlier with Anastasia, he felt the need to push the man away or excuse himself, just out of repulsion that anyone was so _close_, but he did not for fear of this man leaving. He was not done wondering how exactly he pulled it off. The _Cat_ should have been dead.

After being hauled down to a different train compartment so a few medics could bring her back, Anastasia returned, ashen faced and bashful, to the area and sat on the other side of Ace—Ace tried to prevent that, but failed—shooting daggers at Nye. It wasn't very effective, considering her eyes were small and black, just like her hair, and she was just generally a small and bird-like creature. It was like watching a child threaten to strangle a bully with only her pigtails and jump rope.

The reaping clips were short and boring. One after the other, people were called up, dramatic music played, and another person was sentenced to death while the other citizens wore plain expressions as if they were glad it wasn't them. _How selfless of them._

"Why..." Anastasia said at one point, while watching over the eleventh district. "Their town is horrible... look at all that dirt and clothes..."

"Did you think that everyone was as rich as us?"Ace asked.

She blushed a shade of deep violet, but continued stonily, "Well I never gave it much thought. They really don't have much, do they? Is our district really that rich? Or greedy?"

"Yes," he answered honestly.

Fae shot them looks. She was a capitol junkie after all. Anything that reflected badly on the people who filled her paycheck, she would veto, but it wasn't as if she'd been nice to them anyways. It was true; District Two was unfairly favored by the very people who sentenced them to death because it gave the Capitol the weapons to do so. It was idiotic of the town and factories of their home town to do such a thing, and Ace had often wondered why no one had thought to stop it, but seeing the clips as Anastasia had made him realize what they would lose: the luxury. They wouldn't have buildings and fresh food and restaurants. They wouldn't have shops and heated homes, tailored clothes, and medicine.

_Medicine._

It wasn't as if Noah had gotten much of that now, right? So what was the point?

Seeing his revelation made it easier for him not to yell at Anastasia for her stupidity.

"You both should be grateful," Fae hissed at them. She had pointy teeth, the kind you'd seen on a cat or vampire. It scared Anastasia—Ace could tell by the way she recoiled so severely, her shoulder hit the girl victor, whose name he had not cared to learn.

"Is it that, though?" she said quietly, as the newest male tribute made his way onto the stage, awed faces boring from the crowd. "Is it that they're what it really is out there and we're privileged, or are we just completely adequate and they have messed up their lived beyond recognition?"

"Your district is not favored by anyone," Fae stated, almost as if it had been rehearsed. Ace didn't believe a word of it. "The less wealthy districts of Panem are simply lacking in economy. It happens to the best of us. They just have to work harder for their money, because they didn't want to work hard in the first place. But if they had, they would be just like you guys."

Ace didn't need to listen well to know what duplicity came from her red-painted lips. She was one of them, after all, brainwashed and taught from an early age that the districts are ignorant and that she was to keep them that way. It was written all over her in permanent marker.

No, he didn't even bother to pay attention to whatever it was she was saying. What he was focused on was the crowd, the way their faces were not bored or lacking like it had been in the previous clips, like it had been in his. They watched the small, eleven-year-old boy get up on the stage, undeniable horror on their faces as he took the microphone and identified himself. They were sorry for him, and he consumed them all. It didn't take a genius to see that he was all they were thinking of, of the tragic loss to their community it was going to be. Their district was not thinking of tortilla chips or of what they were going to have for dinner or who was dating who, or of anything. They wouldn't return home that night and go on as life goes on, with nothing out of the ordinary. They knew that the slightest loss to their community was exactly as it was named: a loss. A loss of a child who could have grown up to be something more, and this, Ace realized, was the real difference between districts, not wealth, as Anastasia had put it. This was what was so foreign to him. No, they would return to their houses—or shacks, as it was better put—and they would recognize the boy that had not been recognized before. When a tribute died in district two, they would be as they had always been, as if they had never left at all. They were all just pets of the games, and a loss to their them was just a petty loss of a childish game, like losing letters in scrabble and having to go fish when playing cards.

He studied the scene more closely. And as the two people from the district—the small boy and the teenage girl—shook hands, the people cared and the screen went blank.

No one in the room seemed to be phased. Not even Nye. Not even Anastasia.

"Are you okay, Noah?" Fae's voice was exactly the same as it had been moments before, scolding and cold, just like his mother's.

"Oh fine," he gritted between his teeth. "I'm a freaking ray of sunshine, really."

And he stormed out of the room before Twelve could play. What did it matter to watch, anyways, if they were all going to die?

-.-

That night, Ace replayed what he had learned from watching the first ten districts:

1) The two tributes from One, both teenagers, are overemotional brother and sisters. It is less likely that they will show mercy, given that when they shook hands, the girl tried to Indian sunburn his arm. Not close siblings. Not loved. Even more likely: they'll kill each other off. Not a loss, but foolish, really. Obvious.

2) The ginger girl from Three has noticeable, arching scars on her arms and legs, the kind one got from running through dense forests or stubborn thickets. She was muscled in the calves and forearms. So quick and speedy. Overconfident. If it was that visible, even on TV, than the small angrily red marks were often gained and new. She was active and strong.

3) The twelve year old from Four—the volunteer who'd been crying—knows he's going to die. From the look on his face and they way he held himself, it's quite possible that he's not going to try, and even if he does, it is very unlikely he'll be a threat, so he could be saved for later. If someone doesn't already get to him or if he doesn't die in the cornucopia bloodbath.

4) District Six tributes are the biggest threat. They're skilled, quick, and clever children who have gotten training just as appropriate as one would get at the Shift.

And the rest were all irrelevant. Minors. Not a worry.

-.-

His bed was cold at night, the kind of cold that makes you think that someone should be on the other side, the kind of cold that makes you want to burrow into your blankets and never come out. He didn't know the reason he was wondering why it _was_ that way. He only stared at the ceiling, where the hanging lamp left shadows against the bedspread and floor. Moonlight and starlight streamed through the open window in a broad glow as the train raced. Four AM, Ace guessed. He could barely see the outside. They was moving too fast.

Ace cocooned himself deeper into the satin sheets and buried his face into his pillow. It was hard to breathe that way, but comfortable. It would have been over soon, anyways. Soon, he would be back home. This obstacle, this hindrance—it was nothing but temporary.

He was going home soon, he thought to himself. He was going home and there would be no more of these ridiculous sheets and this ridiculous bed, and he'd be back with his brother and uptight mom, and there would be dirty clothes littering the ground and stains on the carpet, books lining the walls, and Peter would be yelling at him. And things would be alright.

Slowly, as if scared his still-unconscious bones would snap at early pressure, Ace rolled out of bed, taking the blankets with him, and moved towards the stone window alcove to sit on the windowsill, resting his head against the cold rock wall. He was fascinated by the way the trees and buildings meshed together with the speed of the train, like a blur of colors and electricity, blues and greens and grays.

_It's going to be over soon._

-.-

They had not been that far away from the Capitol to begin with, so the journey there was short. At about an hour prior from their destination, Ace still hadn't left his bedroom that day and was surprised to see Anastasia knock on his door for the second time.

"Can I _help_ you?" he questioned crossly, lying on his back with the comforter wrapped around him. He was pointedly aware of the fact he wasn't wearing a shirt nor was he wearing pants, having fallen asleep in only his boxer shorts when Fae had told him to wake up the first time, and his feeble attempt to get dressed was soon dismissed.

Anastasia did not seem bothered by that fact Ace was glaring at her with weary red eyes, half asleep.

"You didn't come to breakfast or lunch. I was getting worried."

"We're about to enter games where one of us is going to die—and not to be callous or rude, because I really don't wish to be, but that one person is probably going to be you. Don't you think it unwise to be worrying about me in such an innocent sense if you're going to be murdered in a few weeks time?"

Anastasia visibly winced and backed up a few steps. "How do you know that it's not going to be you? Or both of us?"

"It's possible," Ace mumbled, trying to pull the quilt higher to shield his face as well as his (mostly) bare body. "But me surviving is statistically more likely, don't you think?"

"I may not like your attitude," she growled, "but I was hoping we could make friends. If I were to be honest, I don't think you're going to win these games, Ace. How could you when you're surviving off stubborn arrogance and overrated 'intelligence', if you could call it that. And since when did hoping and wishing ever hurt anybody?"

Ace stared at her, dumbfounded. "Are you joking?" he asked. "Hoping and wishing is the exact things that _do_ hurt you. Unmet expectation is the root to all heartbreak, and you of all people should know that. It is _not_ an advantage, therefore I don't waste my time with it, and you shouldn't either."

He'd never seen her so red-faced. In one deft movement—a movement that seemed too practiced and fluent to be hers—she took the vase that sat on the shelf and flung it at the opposite wall, and then did the same with the alarm clock. It smashed, and its metal pieced rolled against the tile in fragments.

"Oh, and you think it's easy for me to _know _I'm going to die? Do you think that's _easy_? I'm sorry that I have things going on in my life, and I'm sorry I actually have feelings, unlike you! I have three weeks to live, and all I can think of is what to say in my dying moments. If you know you're going to die, what do you _say_? It's as if people think that naming what they've done wrong, asking for forgiveness to whoever may be out there, is the easiest thing to do right? I'm the person who destroys people's lives and yet somehow selfishly become the most tragic thing in it, _yet again_, and now I'm dying, and I've still don't feel sorry about it. I want to feel bad, but I can't and that's killing me all alone. So you think I need your reminder that my yet-to-be guilt is on a time limit?"

Ace stared at her, trying to make his face unreadable. He didn't understand what she was saying, and for some strange reason, it was maddening, making his skin itch.

"Tell me about it," he said in order to redeem himself. He couldn't for his life figure out what he'd done wrong, but apologizing would have been the correct thing to do—right? That's what normal people did? That's what was expected? That, and he almost did _want _to. But how?

"I didn't mean to upset you."

_Was that sufficient?_

But she just shook her head without reply. She wasn't crying—she was beyond that, but the way her face scrunched up and her face flushed, she reminded him deeply of Noah right before he left, the way he had sobbed and reached out for Ace until the peacekeeper had slammed the door, and more importantly, of how Ace hadn't reached for him back.

He knew it wasn't right, that his body was screaming in protest, that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but the thing he knew the most was the Noah _was_ Anastasia in most ways. So he let his blanket fall to his abdomen, and he reached out to pull her into an awkward, one-armed hug. It wasn't like he'd shared with Noah or even his mother, but he hoped it was close enough for her.

**_Review!_**


	4. Chapter 4

**Can I apologize for the absolute suck of this chapter beforehand? Because it really **_**does**_** suck. And I really **_**am**_** sorry for it. I'm kind-of exhausted and drained, and at the moment, this is the best I can do. Sorry if it's confusing, or boring, or unnecessary, but right now, all I want is sleep.**

**Enjoy?**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

Ace had not seen his cousins Micah and Genevieve since he was twelve years old, a good six years ago. He remembered them distinctly as people who he did not mind to be around, a difficult feat in District Two. They stayed at the apartment over Peter's bookshop for three weeks, and every day when Ace went in to work, a day of stocking books and slacking off in the corner to read, they would sit at one of the tables swapping stories of their night and outings at the Capitol. He couldn't remember their faces as much as he could remember their smell, a cloying mixture of cheap lilac perfume and lemon grass, fatally pungent. No one in the family understood their need as children to dye their skin different colors or read brain-washing laminated magazines, and when they decided to leave their district at the age of fourteen, there weren't many complaints, maybe because the Capitol was nice to us, or maybe (more possibly) they were happy to see the two go. But they came back a few years later, and every day as that young twelve year old, Ace would overhear their conversations, and every day, Ace would try not to. Try as he might, though, he still heard.

They had gotten jobs as make-up artists in the big city, working their way up from in-home salons, to beauty parlors, to Capitol government. They painted their faces a different color every day, bleached their hair, and wore "scandalous" outfits to get people talking—to be noticed.

Ace didn't understand it, and for someone who did not care who was talking about him (or not), this fact was natural. His mother had reminded him before his departure of Micah and Genevieve's place in the government, now serving as artists for the tributes of their former district. This was neither worrying nor was it exciting for him, but when he was brought out of the train, through the city, and into a very large and shiny building, he started to see the benefits.

He met Genevieve first. Her unnaturally green eyes, like spring grass, were glossy with tears as she pulled him into a hug. Ace tried furiously not to choke, and his first impression of her being tolerable was shortly gone as she tugged on his hair and pinched his cheeks to see if he was okay. After the fuss, though, she seemed to see him for the first time, and her eyes widened. "Ace…?"

He wanted to punch her. "Don't!"

"How—you'll never get away with this, Ace, you know it!"

"Stop that!" he whispered harshly. "Stop saying my name."

"_Noah_," Genevieve corrected herself. Thankfully her partner, a man by the name of Alecto, was fishing through a heavy bag on the other side of the room, pulling out multiple instruments that, to Ace, looked painful and unpleasant.

"Why would you do that, Noah? Don't you know they'll eventually find out, and he will die anyway?"

"Don't _say_ something like that."

Her hands were pressed to either side of his face warm despite the more chilly air of the room. He focused on the way she talked. The accent from their home was slowly disappearing after so many years, replaced with a stilted, blocky language he had trouble following at first listen.

"I could see it the moment I looked into your eyes. The viewers who know our family will see it too, _querido_. Don't worry, we'll make you unrecognizable for the ceremonies _and_ the games."

Querido? Ace didn't know what to say. Their family wasn't Spanish, nor was most of the Capitol citizens, though he supposed it was hard to tell with all the distractions. He stole a look over towards her partner, who was alarmingly underdressed for a make-up artist, then to the ring on her bony fingers, and realized.

"You've learned Spanish for him, haven't you?"

She blushed. It was hard to see over her …_work_. "Just a few lines."

"Why didn't you tell us about 'im?"

She waved her hand dismissively and busied herself with a few brushes. "I didn't want to bother you all. You were so worried with—uh, _Ace_ all the time that I knew it would just disturb anyone. To think of all you've given up keeping him alive. I mean, you haven't gotten the proper training at the Shift, have you? Foolish of you to take his place, no?"

"Hardly."

Alecto was tall and well-built, with curly dark hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes. He seemed normal for a worker in this area, and Ace couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the gold ring on his left hand.

He was stripped down soon. They washed the grime and soot off his body, underneath his toes and his arms, and shaved him of all hair—he didn't like that. Despite him being naked before hand, he felt barer than ever, and he longed for the robe hanging on a chair not far away. _This is not me_, he thought, _I am not self conscious._ So he stood there as they inspected him, shaping his eyebrows and painting his lips.

While Alecto's back was turned to wash the dye off his towel, Genevieve brought Ace to a bathroom, gave him an appreciated robe, and placed a small, white plastic box in his hand. It was made of two circles.

"Long-lasting contacts," she told him, "you'll see how to put them on easily. They make your eyes look blue like your brothers, and will stay in for about a month."

They both knew that that would be enough time. In about a month, the tributes would be dead anyways—most of them. And his eye color was the only thing that marked him and his brother as separate. Without that dividing line, they would be the same person.

When he was done, they sat him in front of a mirror with light bulbs lining the outside of it, classic just like Genevieve would have asked for. She raked a hand through his hair, scissors clipping together in the other.

"Normally we let the designer see you, but as of now, we cut your hair and want to do your make-up now so we won't have to redo it later. Just try not to touch it too much, because there's a few hours left until the opening chariot races."

He caught the key word. "_Make-up_?"

She started to snip away at his dark hair without reply. The locks used to spill passed his ears and gather at a point between his shoulder blades, but when she collected all of his hair in her fist and cut right above it, he noticed exactly _how_ far she was going with this. He watched his hair fall to the floor in large, choppy clumps.

"Now," she mumbled, "to even it out…"

He tried not to look as she worked, instead at his reflection, studying his appearance and trying to make it unreadable.

Ace looked different than he remembered. They'd changed the shade of his iris. He'd never known his nationality specifically, but from what he'd read in the bookshop and a little bit of family history digging with the help of photo albums and a slightly intoxicated Peter, he suspected that his father must have been three-quarters Arabic and one quarter British. On the other hand, there was his mother, and with her light but tan skin and white-blonde hair, he'd discovered she was mostly Greek. The result was a odd one—he had dark features, where you could clearly see the Arabic in his blood, but when he looked at his skin, it was neither his mothers nor his fathers, but a light olive shade that didn't really have a name. He figured after millions of years of humans mating, he was the result. There was hardly a pureblood around these days. But they'd done something to his skin that made it look oddly darker and free of the scars and blemishes it used to have, lining his now blue eyes with kohl and eyelashes with black goo. He felt uncomfortable, his skinny and awkward body exposed underneath the thin satin fabric of his robe.

Though he still didn't look handsome—his eyes were too cold, nose too long, and his cheekbones too prominent—he looked _noticeable_, and that's what the judges wanted, no matter how girly he looked or felt.

At last, he allowed a peak at his hair. It was close-cropped and above the ears, dark as night—that was the only thing still the same. He dragged a hand through it—it had only been so short once in his life.

"Always thought you looked better that way," Genevieve murmured quietly into his ear, and she pulled off the hair-dresser's cape.

"Where exactly _is_ Micah?"

She smiled. "Oh him? You'll see him soon enough, _querido_."

-.-

Ace was still messing up his hair when he left Genevieve. He couldn't get over the feeling that his hair had been there a moment before, and now it was nothing but the bare air tickling his shoulders under the robe.

Micah and Nye sat together on a plush couch, bent over a document and a plate of various foods. When they heard Ace come in, Micah coughed and stopped talking, and Nye leaned back in his seat, grinning evilly as if he had something planned. It occurred to Ace that maybe Nye wasn't as dim-witted at he had assumed.

"Noah," Micah mumbled. "Sit down. Haven't seen you since you were a child."

"He still is a child," Nye laughed. Ace shot him a look.

"Barely. Look at him!"

Nye did and raised his eyebrows. "Dear Lord, what did those bastards do to you?"

"Just about everything they could think of, I assume, going on what I know about my sister." He rolled up the piece of paper he'd been writing on and stuck the pen inside.

"You are aware of what I'm here for, right Noah?"

"You're my designer, obviously. What are you planning?"

"Well, given the need to represent your district, I'm afraid there isn't much you could do creatively for weapons unless you want a hand gun costume." He sighed and crossed his legs. He looked pretty much the same as his sister, but his hair was lighter and skin tone was the same tan it had always been. "And though we need to make you noticeable, I feel as though we need to do something… inconspicuous. Something that may seem hidden in plain sight, but when you do make your stand, they will all recognize you. Follow?"

"Yes," Ace and Nye said at the same time.

"I was thinking master assassin. With guns. Real guns. And bombs and knives."

"Guns aren't allowed," Nye reminded him.

"There won't be any ammunition in it, of course, and the knives won't be sharp, and the bombs would be, obviously, not explosive. But the public won't know what. It will be straight out of a James Bond movie."

"Not really," he muttered. "You haven't even _seen_ James Bond."

"Is Anastasia getting the same thing?"

Micah pursed his lips at him. "Yes—but that is irrelevant. Right now, we need to get you in costume."

-.-

One hour later, Ace and Anastasia were brought all the way down from the Remake center. They were in black leather jumpsuits, bands of silver crossing at their waists, wrists, and feet. A tight belt around their waists was made as a holder at each hip for their "weapons"—i.e. bombs, knives, and something that looked mysteriously like kitchen tongs, but that didn't make sense. A dangerous looking machine gun was strapped to their backs.

Anastasia was dolled up just like Ace. Her used-to-be long, matted black hair was cut short to her chin and silky, and her eyes, usually small brown and unnoticeable seemed to have grown two sizes. Her mouth was pressed in a solid line as she pet the nose of their horse.

"You've cut your hair. It looks nice."

"Well, so have you."

She moved towards him. "This is all very vain, isn't it?" she asked quietly. "Dressing up this way, knowing the only way to survive is to stand out. I don't think this is the message I want to send to people, with weaponry, and violence, and a desperate need for attention, as if that's the only way to live."

"You've really thought this through, yeah?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "This is not how I want to be remembered."

Ace inclined his head. "So you've thought more about it?"

Her lips twitched. "A bit, yes. Have you?"

"I don't think there's a reason to, to be perfectly honest."

"Fair enough, Bond. Get on the freaking platform already."

They jumped onto the chariot, and the horse—Anastasia decided to name him Cranky—whined with the weight. She tried to console it from.

The tributes were lining up in pairs. Ace looked around for the people he had seen in the videos—the ones he watched, at least. He saw the small boy from four who'd been crying, the one who wouldn't try. He looked more decided than the last time, but the deep bags that were not fully hid under his eyes told otherwise. In the other corner, he saw the child from eleven that had made him storm out and yell at Fae just two nights before. Standing next to him was a much taller, lanky girl with a heart-shaped face, whose blonde hair was being slobbered all over by their horse. She laughed, showing a brilliant smile, and kissed the top of his head. _How can someone be so carefree right now? How can someone be so carefree in general?_

Ace was taken out of his reverie by the feel of Anastasia's hand grabbing his own. Nye was suddenly next to them, along with the other victors, who were looking bored.

"Why are you here?" Ace asked.

Nye bit his lip and rested his arm on the cart. "To help you, ya' snobby dork. Make sure you keep your hands high in the air, and make sure people see them clasp'd. And smile, Noah, you look just about ready to shoot somebody wit' dat gun."

Ace didn't tell him how ready he really was.

His fingers tapped the metal of their chariot, and with one final wink in Anastasia's direction, galloped away better than the horses could with the other's tailing him from behind.

She just blushed and smiled after him.

Ace looked incredulous. "Oh, don't tell me you've made friends with the mutt, have you?"

She elbowed him hard in the ribs, a task which was made somewhat awkward by their embraced hands. "I made a friend. So what? Are we in kindergarten?"

"Think Elaine would approve of you making friends?"

She made an angry face. "Don't even bring Elaine into this!"

But with one look to his expression, Anastasia could see that—believe it or not—he was joking, and she gave him a weak smile for his effort.

They are both shocked by the speed they had to travel as they are hurdled forward into Circle City. The crowds screamed, flailing their arms, jumping, and shrieking high enough that Ace was sure only dogs could hear half of them. Their heads bobbed unevenly over the surface of the hoard.

Ace waved reluctantly, trying to make his face likable, but it ws hard and probably a failure. Somewhere out there, his cousins were staring disapproved. He could hear the _tsk, tsk_ sounds Genevieve would make when he returned as clearly as he could hear the uneven rise and fall of Anastasia's chest.

"Why are they cheering? We're being sent to our deaths, and they're actually _happy _for us? Are they mentally unstable, or…?"

Ace looked out towards the crowd, where people were holding up signs that spelled out his name in curly letters, and girls are swooning, gasping at the machinery strapped to him at all sides. He doesn't know how to react. People were looking at _him_. Were they picking out his flaws? It didn't appear so, and even though—_even though_ Ace didn't care for attention, he'd never felt so important in all of his short-lived life.

_**Review!**_


	5. Chapter 5

**I feel almost proud of myself for updating so quickly lately. Though usually I notice a lot of silly little errors, switching of tenses, and whatnot. Thanks to my viewers. I'm surprised at how many people are reading this, because I don't often get attention, and I hope this chapter makes up for the less than adequate one last time. I wrote it while listening to The Beatles' song "Let it Be", and it's still unclear to me how much effect it had. Thank you again!**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

The city pulsed with electricity at night, and Ace could see two people holding hands in the street, see kids not older nor younger than he was roaming around on bicycles, others marching as if in a parade. Lights flickered on and off unevenly, and Ace stared into the buildings of offices and apartments and complexes. _These people know who I am,_ he thought miserably. If he'd been asked a few hours before, where the roar of the crowd was still stuck in his ears, he wouldn't have been so displeased by this, but when sat in the windowsill of his new room, staring at the people who were about to witness so many deaths, it didn't seem like such a good thing anymore.

Ace moved from the window and headed to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror and carefully wipe away the make-up his cousin had applied earlier that day. Black streaks marked his face.

"This is stupid," he muttered to himself and turned on the bath faucet to soak.

-.-

Nye, the other three victors, short-haired/short-tempered Anastasia, and Ace chatted over breakfast.

"Find wood and water immediately. After that, food. Gather berries, fruit, or slugs to roast—anything. Make friends at training to find an ally. But for God's sake, _do not _show your skills there in that room. Everyone knows you save it for the arena."

"Any word on what the arena will be like this year?" Anastasia asked.

It might've been the makeover, but she looked considerably better. She'd earned a sleep all the way through the night, eliminating the purple insomnia marks under her eyes, and though it was slowly becoming knotted again, her hair was smoother than usual. A part of Ace missed that matter heap of hair that used to pile on her head. It reminded him of home. Instead of dwelling on her tresses, though, Ace turned quickly to his plate, where the only thing he'd taken was a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of cantaloupe.

The female victor—Esme—shook her head. "No word. Sorry. But they won't make it in city ruins like last year—they never do the same setting in a row."

"Is that all you're eating, Noah?" Nye looked at him. With the flash of florescent lights, the scars marring his face gleamed like silver crescents, but a second later his face angled shifted and the eerie sight evaporated.

Esme clicked her tongue in disapproval. "You need to fatten up, Noah. It'd be unwise not to eat now, when there are unlimited choices, because only the Capitol knows what you'll have in a week."

"Don't tell _me_ what is unwise, Blondie," Ace snapped. It came out harsher than intended, but instead of apologizing, he softened his expression. It was close enough in his mind.

"Anyways," Julian—the older brother of the last two Victors—continued, "Most will die in the Cornucopia bloodbath. Don't go in, no matter what, for any supplies. Once you've established shelter like I said before, there will be backpacks, supply kits, and weapons strewn everywhere. Only then at nightfall go forth while the canons are playing and the fallen are projected on the force field. Everyone is usually too consumed to see if there's a free runner for rogue supplies."

Ace was only half listening. But when Genevieve opened the door to the dining room he was suddenly in hyper-drive.

"We must see Noah at once." She held her ground, lips thin, but playful amusement danced in her unnatural eyes, like a spark of forgotten childhood. Fae sputtered indignantly and the soup in her half-raised spoon dribbled out onto her lap. "You are a stylist, Genevieve. There is absolutely no reason for you to take one of our tributes today."

The corners of Genevieve's mouth tugged up. "Oh we don't need him as stylists. I'm simply a messenger for the medics. They need to give Noah his medication."

"Medication?" Esme gasped and recoiled out of breathing distance from Ace. "Is he diseased?"

"No, no, Esme. Just hand him over."

_Hand him over_. Ace didn't like the sound of that, as if he were a toy reluctantly shared between two children.

Ace followed only because it was Genevieve. He was led to a small room off the third corridor, just slightly bigger than a broom closet and stuffed with so many machines and chairs that there was barely enough room to stand next to the three nurses. One of them held out a needle and gestured for him to sit down in a dentist's chair.

Ace stayed rooted to the floor. "And what is this exactly?" he lulled.

"_Noah_," Genevieve chided. She still had the glint in her eyes, which was becoming so prominent and mad looking he suddenly did not want to be in here. "Your medication. We can't have you going into the games sickly, now can we? This medicine would cure any disease that you may have, that way you wouldn't die of it in the arena, and everything will be fair."

Her expression added what was obviously not said aloud: _So that you won't die of anything not Capitol-induced_. Because that would reflect terribly on the Government. Because it would show that something out of their power had control. Because in some eyes, his "disease" would be an act of rebellion.

"No—no, I'm not taking that."

The mute nurse grabbed his arm and set him down on the chair with a thump, ignoring his protests. He stared at the needle which contained the answer to all of his brother's problems. It was the reason he didn't pay for training at the Shift. It was the reason he worked every day to make a living at his Uncle's bookshop, the reason he'd given up his mattress for the secondhand moldy one, and the reason no one bothered to patch up his overtly less magnificent home. He'd been saving up for the small needle that would save his brother's life, and in a few moments it was going to be given to the wrong person, an undeserving one. Ace did not pay for that medicine, nor did he need it, and it was going to waste. He couldn't do that to his brother—not when he was already doing so much. He could only think of what his brother would say—so selfish—so irresponsible—so unforgivable—

"I can't!"

Ace screamed and elbowed one of the medics in the gut, feeling only slight remorse when she doubled over. But Genevieve caught him around the waist, and he suddenly cursed himself for being so skinny and frail. Was this what the Hunger Games going to be like? Surely not.

He aimed two fingers into a pressure point into her neck, a place he knew from experience she couldn't stand, and went for the door, knowing it would be locked before he even brandished the knob.

"Listen to me, Noah! Listen to me!"

"I'm healed! I haven't coughed or sneezed since I've been here! I feel fine!" Even he knew it was no use. He may have been clever, but if he didn't take the medicine, he wouldn't be able to go into the Games. They'd kill him, his brother, and he'd never be able to use the victor's rewards for his brother in the first place, the only reason he was even being cooperative with the faculty.

Genevieve's voice was nothing more than a whisper. "The medicine is new. Only been tested on animals, too. It's practically a prototype right now, okay? I'm not going to lie to you, there may be some side effects, but they will be painless. Even if you were totally disease free, it wouldn't hurt, and the Capitol is going to force it on you whether you reject it or not."

Ace looked into her face. He knew how to unlock doors, and he could have easily done it, planned an escape route towards his room and locked himself in from the inside. It would take a while for them to get the master key, not wanting to break their precious door. But when he looked at Genevieve, who was smiling as if it were the greatest thing to have ever happened, he stopped and sat patiently in the seat, rigid as a board.

But even as the needle went into his neck and the nerves there went ice cold, he couldn't stop the feeling as if the toxin had been made of unadulterated betrayal.

-.-

Numb.

Ace felt numb. Frozen. Detatched.

**Numb **/nəm/ (Adj.) _Deprived of the power of sensation._

Part of him wondered what his brother was doing and the other part of him wondered when he'd feel his legs again. He walked aimlessly through the building, up stairs, through corridors, and into small rooms that led to even bigger ones. He did not expect to run into Nye and Anastasia, chatting merrily about a topic he didn't understand, and he did not anticipate the overwhelming happiness in their voices, as if they were having a nice time with one another's presence.

He made sure to keep his head down. There were people in the room that had worked with District Two personally, people who had seen his face, seen his brother, and watched as he, the miracle kid, solved puzzles in his school at record setting times. It had been easier before, where he was surrounded by people that wouldn't rat on him. But what were to happen if one of his contacts fell out, and he was unveiled? He didn't want to picture it, and he knew it would only be that much harder in the arena.

"Noah! We were just talking about you!" Nye grinned. Was that the grin of a prodigy, like him, or was that a grin of a sociopath?

"Sharing tips on how to kill me, I presume?"

His grin grew. "Only a few. So far we have carving out that swollen brain of yours and undermining you by saying you're not pretty. It's like we can slowly tear down your self confidence."

"Is that to say I'm _not_ pretty?"

"Oh no," he teased. "You're the hottest guy in school, can't you tell? Like a stud muffin, where is your leather jacket and hair gel, man?"

Ace rolled his eyes and sat down on a backwards chair to rest his chin on the spine. "What are you really talking about?"

"We just told you," Anastasia laughed.

"Is it true neither of you were trained at the Shift?"

"Anastasia was, but I wasn't," Ace told him. "But Anastasia sucked at everything, so she might as well have not been."

Her mouth hung slack. "I object to that statement."

"Overruled." Ace hit the coffee table like a mallet, and Nye laughed.

"Okay, I'm going to be honest, I wasn't trained either, and somehow I won, so I don't think you need to worry about it. There are other ways besides brawn to win, but you both might want to think of finding an ally that is stronger, so you'll be an undefeatable team of might and mind, okay?"

Anastasia gave them a withering look. "I failed most of my classes at my high school, okay? I mean, okay—they might have been because I set most of my teachers on fire—on accident, I swear!—and I'm pretty sure that Mr. Harley mooned as a serial killer, but the question still stands. How am I to win if I have nothing?"

_You don't_, Ace thought sadly. He didn't say it aloud for fear of upsetting her again.

Nye looked at her for a moment, and then sighed, defeated. Ace could tell this was an act, and so could Nye, but he was smart enough to know that she was fooled. They both knew she didn't have a chance. "Find someone who would rather take your place than let you die."

-.-

_Ace was just turning the last page of his book when Peter barged in sourly._

"_Get up! Up! I didn't hire you so you could slack off, Brickham, don't you know what's at stake?"_

"_What crawled up your ass and died last night, Pete?" Ace retorted, just as the main character was slowly slipping into death. He didn't need to ask. He was eavesdropping on his mother earlier that day. He knew the issue._

"_Watch it, or I'll wash your mouth out with soap, boy. Clean the shelves and dust the books, your cousins are coming for a stay."_

"_Hmm. Yes."_

"_Yes, and I suggest you do as I say."_

_Sighing, he closed his book and placed it back on the shelf he'd taken it from just two hours beforehand. It was one of the better ones in the library—not good enough to be his favorite, but with a focus like a schizophrenic circus entertainer, it was enough to keep him sane for a few hours on his own in the back corner of the library._

_When Micah and Genevieve arrived later that day, when Peter had made their beds in the apartment above the shop and started baking two crisp apple pies, it had started to rain, sloshing against the sidewalks and pooling the streets, the drains failing to do their job. Ace gave them a quick hello before heading out for his home just a few blocks down, another book with dragons on the cover for his brother. _

_The shops that lined both sides of the streets ranged from Polish and Italian restaurants, to coffee café's, to thrift store clothing markets. Raindrops dripped from the ends of his eyelashes and soaked his close-cropped black hair. He tugged on his sleeves and pulled his trench coat farther around him. It wasn't safe to be downtown at such an hour. The stars and full moon hung in the direct center of the sky, right next to a large clock tower, and it was the only source of light that guided his way home. Someone could have easily been following him, but with the steady rain, Ace was sure he'd be able to hear their footsteps in puddles of water if they got any closer, and at the moment, the scene was completely silent other than his ragged breathing and of water hitting the metal gutters._

_But when he _did_ hear someone following him, Ace turned around as quickly as he could. It was Genevieve, brightly dyed hair the only color in the otherwise black and grey night._

"_Haven't seen you in so long. How old are you, Ace?"_

"_Twelve," he answered stiffly. Water was leaking into his shoes, and he was clammy, cold, and irritable, but she seemed to really wish to speak to him, so he stayed still as they were drenched._

"_And your brother, Noah, is eleven? My you've both grown up. How is he?"_

_Ace gave her a weary look she seemed to understand and Genevieve put a leather-gloved hand on his short hair. "You've grown up to look so handsome, no? So austere; so aristocratic."_

And you look like a Capitol Clown_, Ace felt compelled to add. She looked sad, and it wasn't just because her makeup was running down her face, but because her mouth was set into a permanent scowl, and though they were silent, her eyes were screaming._

"_Don't cry," he muttered, an attempt to get away rather than to console, but she must have mistaken the gesture because she looked so gratified, she took Ace's face in his hands and kissed his forehead. Her lips were cold. _

"_You're too sweet. I might not be coming back home for a long, long time, but I haven't been able to see you. You looked tried. I wanted to see if _you_ were okay."_

_Ace raised his eyebrows. "Why?"_

_She looked confused. "Why? What do you mean?"_

"_Never mind," he mumbled._

"_Why don't I walk home with you? It's a full moon tonight. The werewolves might get you."_

_Under any other circumstances, this might've been insulting and instigating to pin a childish joke on him when he was so much more mature than that, but when Genevieve did it, he could hear the banter in her voice, and he couldn't help but laugh with her and they clasped hands and ran to escape the angry rain._

-.-

"Do you think that, in some ways, people are like storms and hurricanes? They start off slow somewhere far out, where no one knows who or what they are, as a child and then grow and move faster through life, and when they spin over warm waters their winds whip higher and there's a lot more collateral damage. And that's when they are noticed—when there is damage and warnings."

Anastasia stood in front of her mirror, plucking stands of hair and twisting them into an intricate braid all the way down her back, seeming to know where each piece was without seeing it.

"You think too much," Ace said quietly as he watched her, bringing his feet up to his chest and sitting on her bed. "Or not enough. I haven't decided. What is it, exactly, that makes people think more of life when they are closer to the ends of theirs?"

"It's a moral thing," she amended. "I'm surprised more philosophers don't branch out. Famous last words and all of that."

"I suppose. Does that mean that you think of life in general? Or yours and the people that affect it?"

"Both, I suppose. But mostly when you think you're dying. It makes you realize all of your regrets. All the people you wish you could have saved."

"Do you ever think that?"

Anastasia tied the bottom of her braid with a hair band and turned around. "Do you ever think of your brother with regret, and wonder, had you done something differently, do you think you could have saved him?"

_**Review!**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! Yes, I am back. Thank for viewing, or if this is your first time reading, thank you for getting so far as the sixth chapter. I hardly think that anyone cares that much, but if you do, I respect you a lot. (You have good taste ;) )**

**This chapter took forever, and for that, I am sorry. I had to introduce a lot of important characters and differentiate which ones go to which district, but still. Hope you enjoy, and here you go:**

_**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**_

The day before training—real training, in an actual training room, with actual other tributes— began, it started to rain. Since they were originally living very close to the Capitol, Ace and Anastasia had more time on their own before. Some districts arrived the day of the opening ceremony. It was unfair, really.

Ace and her chatted quietly on their floor and sat on the stone bricks of the fireplace to warm up. Their spot on the building was not very high up_ technically_. Being District Two meant that they were on the second floor, and while at first that might not seem like much, the ceilings were a lot higher than an average house or hotel, and Ace found himself unable to see real, full humans, just burry outlines and vague colors of what he knew humans were. Real life seemed so far away, but even at the part of his existence when he walked among them, talked among them, and lived among them, he'd felt that same distance. Ace started to wonder if he'd ever gotten close to anyone at all, besides his brother.

Nye, Esme, and the two victor brothers, Julian and Claude, had approached them both and asked that they were taken by two of them. Julian and Claude took a sheepish Anastasia away to a different room, and Nye and Esme sat down in from of Ace.

"The training is tonight, and we wanted to talk to you both on how to behave and what to do," Esme explained when they were alone.

"Oh, can it," Ace murmured. "You've told us this, no? Yesterday? And even then, Anastasia and I talked about it before. _We've_ already planned this."

The two exchanged looks, one that Nye didn't seem very worried about, and Esme said, "Are you planning on allying with her? She's very scrawny. I don't think it would be much of a help."

"We're both scrawny," Ace snapped. "But there's more to her than that, and you know it. What? Why are you giving me that look?"

Esme just pressed her lips together.

"I think it's a _fabulous _idea, Esme," Nye chortled. "You are too quick to judge the poor girl. She has some very convincing qualities, and even though a hot temper doesn't get you very far in the games, she might be a possible helper. And even if it's not, if they want to die a fool's death, let them be happy about it while the previously swooning viewers weep."

"Act like _you_ know so much about survival, Nye. You sat in the trees the entirety of your games."

Nye did not seem fazed by this, but Ace paid closer attention than before. _Sat in the trees?_

"Oh, and this is coming from the girl who—quite shamelessly and pathetically—tried to poison me with little success—unless you count Ana."

"_Ana_?" Ace asked, bewildered. "Anastasia does not respond to—"

"Oh, you were being a bastard as always, Nye. Don't get me started."

"Well you didn't do much in your games, either." He turned to Ace, still smiling. "Promise you won't do what this girl did, making out with guys so they would kill people for her and keep her hidden."

Esme stared, abashed and red-faced.

"What's the matter? _Tongue-tied?_" he teased.

"You won't see me making out with anyone in a game of murder," Ace stated, deadpanned. "Look, if you're going to keep on annoying me about this, please just get on with it. I don't want to sit here all day while you two girls have a lover's spat together. What do you need to know?"

"We've decided you're too unlikable," Esme declared.

Nye raised a hand. "No—_you_ did. I think he's quite likable, all things considered. It's just hard to see. We need to bring out the friendly side of you."

"There _is_ no friendly side of him," Esme said before he could retort. "We need you to smile more, Noah. You might want to practice, too, considering how much effort that must take. Also, crack a joke—also a hard task, but you might be able to do it by hanging around Ana a bit more—"

"She isn't called Ana! Just—"

"Possibly even Nye, if it gets that dire."

"Oh, please don't _kiss up_ to me, Esme. You know it won't work."

Esme bared her teeth and ignored it. "What are your skills, Noah?"

"Oh, he's _smart_," Nye interrupted. "Right, Noah? He won't deny it—"

"Very," Ace muttered. "Smarter than you lot, I can already tell."

Esme's eyes narrowed. "I saw your records. It said that you had nearly been kicked out of your elementary, middle, _and_ high school classrooms."

"And if you had read more carefully, you'd have seen that was nothing to do with intelligence, other than the lack of it in my educators' brains. They were all rather moronic."

"I _did_ read carefully. It was for 'sass' and 'disrespect.' But what I'm saying is this competition is not for people who are just _smart_. You need common sense, and I don't think you were using that when you mouthed off to the teachers that could have very well decided if you got a job as an adult. It wasn't very—well—_nice._"

"If we're being honest they were not very nice either."

"You wanna know who else isn't nice? The tributes of Esme's games. But apparently she _got off_ pretty well with some of them."

"Shut it!" Esme screamed and went for the jugular, apparently having enough with his quips. By the time Ace had pulled her off of a giggling Nye, he was put off.

"No—no. This is not worth it. I am done. No more from you two. I'll woo the crowd myself."

And with that, Ace left for his room so he could watch the people out of his bedroom window. There was a static of noise that sounded like Nye and Esme throwing retorts back and forth, and even farther away, the sound of Anastasia's laughter mixed with doors closing and ice hitting a drinking glass.

-.-

They met Nye—the only victor besides an occasional Esme that seemed to honestly care what happened to them—at the elevator at ten the next morning for training. Ace dressed as casually as he could without being in pajamas—drawstring plaid pants that could have been hospital scrubs if they'd been a solid color and a black T-Shirt that, in Ace's opinion, hugged him a bit too tightly than he would have liked. They were very comfy, very flexible, and very easy to move in. When Genevieve and Alecto asked to do his hair and makeup, Ace turned them away. Anastasia was clad in very skinny black jeans and a shirt much like his. She'd accepted her stylists' offer.

"You're not going to be able to train like that," Ace told her. "Can you even move with that denim biting at your flesh?"

"How can you make everything that life offers sound so gross?"

"I hardly think a suffocating pair of jeans is considered another 'thing life has to offer.' That sounds way too good for something way too bad."

"Uncomfortable, more like. But I can move just fine."

Ace merely shrugged. It was not his problem.

When they arrived, a curt woman with dreadlocks pinned a number two to the back of their shirts and set them free. Anastasia scampered off towards the knot tying table and Ace stood there. People were watching him, raking him up and down with bold eyes. He was supposed to be a career, and when they saw his skinny, unimpressive build, they turned away, gossiping and grinning like girls in a high school bathroom.

"What are we, five?" Ace said under his breath before making his way over to a table at random.

He didn't want to practice, just wanted to observe the surroundings and other tributes. It was the second time he'd seen them in person, but only the first time he was able to interact and study them up close and personal. _Personal. Ugh._

Ace idly threw knives at a dart board with the coach started to babble about speed and strength, more watching the small boy next to him than actually trying, but on the fifth try when he hit the bullseye, he put the dagger down. The cold hilt was still stinging his palm.

"You're the boy from four, right? The one who volunteered?" _The one who's going to die with a lack of effort_. Ace tried to make his voice calm and inviting, but he feared it sounded predatory and sick. It was becoming increasingly hard to talk to people, not matter what the age, but he found himself doing it more often.

He looked up. The boy was short and thin, with a round face and gold-rimmed glasses. With his black hair and brown eyes, he reminded Ace somewhat of a mix of Anastasia and Nye. The freckles, on the other hand, gave him a visual of Genevieve before the Capitol took over.

"Yeah? So?"

"So, erm, who did you volunteer for?"

He looked down at his knife. "My brother."

Ace felt a pang of jealousy. _He_ could say out loud, to anyone that would listen, he'd been fighting for his brother.

"Oh? And what's your name?"

"Ezra." His jaw stuck out stubbornly in a familiar way to Ace, and he felt a strange desire to pat the boy on his head.

Stupidly, he burst out, "Do you want me to show you how to throw one?"

Ezra looked up from underneath his lashes, perked. "_Would _you?"

Ace brought the boy back a few steps, got down on his knees, and helped Ezra position his arm at the correct angle.

"Make sure you have the correct velocity for this," he said quietly.

"_Velo-what?_"

But he threw anyways, and, unlike his other tries, was one ring away from the center.

"Yes!" Ezra half cheered/half laughed. He raised a hand for a high-five, which Ace returned as best he could.

"I met a girl here," he told Ace, leaning in. The way his small face beamed made Ace's stomach drop, knowing what being happy now would lead him to. "Well—really at the opening ceremony. She's on her way over, so act cool, okay?"

Ace looked up, confused, to see the teenager from eleven walk over. He remembered her from the ceremony also, being one of the people he'd observed there. She had lank blonde hair, tan skin, and a pretty gap-toothed smile in the front. Freckles dotted her cheeks and slim shoulders, which were exposed by a work-out tank top, but the way she walked suggested an ache in one of her legs, more specifically the calf area.

"Oh" was all he could say. "Have I met you before?" He knew that they hadn't.

"Well, look at this! See you've met my friend." She put a hand between Ezra's shoulder blades and assessed Ace, taking him in from head to toe, and ignoring his original question. "You're Noah, right?"

"As far as anyone here knows." Ace knew that no one would understand. It felt better to say it aloud, anyways.

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm crap at throwing knives."

This surprised Ace. She had muscled arms and legs, the kind one got from working he fields all day, carrying tools and rakes, and lifting heavy bags of grain, like most people did when they came from district eleven. It would also explain the tan skin, from sun exposure.

"So are most of the people here."

"Well, I hope to be better than these people. I like to _think_ I have a shot at winning."

"I believe that's where we differ."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You don't think you could win?"

"On the contrary," he laughed. "Very opposite."

"Oh, I see"—she peaked at the number on his chest—"you're a Career. Explains that much."

It would have been unwise to mention his pathetic history with career-like activities, i.e. not training at the Shift or having any real experience at lifting heavy things, if book crates did not count—he was very good at that, along with smuggling large portions of them home under his jacket.

"I have a…few advancing qualities," he played.

"And yet you elect to help others. Very un-Career-like."

Ace smirked. "I'm guessing you don't know much about Careers. I'm just spreading the knowledge 's all."

"Well then." She raised a hand, and Ace seized it, shook it once, and dropped.

"What's your name?"

Her brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Your _name_. What is it?"

"I—it's—Isla. My name is Isla."

"Well…" Ace rocked back and forth on his feet. "Hello, Isla."

She nodded once. "Hello, Noah—Come now, Ezra. I'll teach you how to tie a knot like my father."

-.-

Ace found himself gravitating closer to Anastasia as the day of training wore on, aching to be around someone he knew and didn't mind, rather than the people he was conversing with. He'd learned how to swing an axe, to tie a decent knot, how to climb a tree without getting splinters or falling off, and the best kinds of berries to pick, but the farther he got into meeting these new instructors, the more he couldn't help but feel this was all very pointless and moot.

When he finally got close enough towards her, he quickly addressed her and caught her into a conversation, not listening to what she was saying, but feeling relieved that he was no longer in the eyes of his victims.

"And I met this girl, Iris—she's seriously going to being hell to me, I swear it. And then there's Kane, who looks as if he was born to kill. And Dayton, who was so sweet, I seriously just want to hug his face, and—"

"Anastasia, what do you think of the nickname 'Ana'?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Dunno, honestly. No one's ever called me that, and I don't really care for anyone to."

He nodded, and then smiled. "Good."

"I think I've made a friend with Kateb, though. He's the big one from District Six—blonde hair and green eyes. Really big competitor, really skilled. I think he might be useful, help keep me alive, but I'm afraid I won't be much of a help. Though I _did_ learn how to catch a fish today—_and_ make a fire with two rocks and a twig."

Ace half smiled. "Oh, you must be so proud."

She puffed out her chest. "Well, of course, young sire." And then—"Did you meet anyone?"

"Hm. Yes. The twelve-year-old volunteer from four, and the farmer chick from eleven."

She spotted them out. "They are, um…"

"Thin? Scrawny? Seemingly useless?"

"One of those, yeah."

"They are," Ace said. "I think I can work with them, though."

-.-

The second day of training was much like the first. Isla and Ezra continued to run around, attached at the hip, only stopping occasionally for bathroom breaks. They laughed and joked together, and Isla even stopped to battle Ace with long bamboo-like sticks, one-on-one combat with the help and supervision of an attendee, who declared it a tie. But Ace was pretty sure he had the better swing.

Ezra showed Ace the correct way to shoot an arrow, just as Ace has taught him how to throw a dagger at the target.

And then there was Anastasia, who quickly made friends and allies, formed a pack, gained skills, and made her name known throughout the tributes overnight. Ace watched her growing popularity without shock as she made yet another friend and climbed a tree until she was as tangled and intertwined with his branches as the tree was with its leaves. She dangled wantonly from it, hanging upside down, and then stopped to go for a run around the perimeter of the ring. Nye had been pleased when he found out, and the rest of them had stared, awestruck.

That night, the lights were off, and Ace sat on the corner piece of the couch, wrapped in a blanket and an oversized sweater, digging himself deeper into the cushions. The sudden breath on his ear alerted him that either Nye or Anastasia was there next to him. When he turned around, Nye was hovering a foot away. Anastasia, on the other hand, was very far from them both and completely asleep and tangled in with the blanket that was draped over her, hands folded underneath her cheek as she slept. People were supposed to look younger when they were asleep, and while it was true to an extent, Ace couldn't help but feel that is wasn't solely just because they were. At night, Anastasia looked different because she didn't have to feel what she did when she was conscious and the weight that was taken off her shoulders the moment she slipped into her dreams smoothes out the lines on her forehead and between the eyebrows, letting her sad eyes relax. It took years off, along with years of stress and hopelessness. It suited her well.

"So you were right," Nye whispered to him, so as not to wake her. The movie the three of them had decided to watch together—the last movie for one of them—was slowly rolling into the credits, and the light from the flat screen TV was the only illuminating light for the room. Ace could hear the soft music and the snoring from other rooms on the floor.

"Right about what?"

He nodded in her direction. "About her. Everyone said she wasn't worth something, and then she goes and proves everyone wrong. But you knew it."

Ace blinked. "Shouldn't everyone?"

_**Review!**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! Sorry this took so long. I had a hard time writing it. Still a bit unsure, frankly. Plus where I'm from, it's blazing out, and it's difficult to write when you're fighting off heatstroke. Today it's raining, and rain is definitely my favorite weather. We don't get it often, and to me it is calming—good writing scene. Anyways, here's the chapter. Oh! And if you don't know what an "Indian Sunburn" is, it's a prank people usually do in schools, often little kids. It's when you twist the skin of someone's arm in different directions until it turns bright red like a burn. It hurts a lot, but it's just one of those little games kids like to play (older than kids if you're me, because I think they're hilarious, but still. I know not all people know what it is).**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

Ace tugged at the collar of his threadbare white sweater, feeling choked, but Anastasia didn't seem as nervous as was expected. They sat perched on a wooden bench with intricate metal armrests; Anastasia was sprawled on top of ninety percent as if it were a bed and Ace on the last ten percent, sitting up rigid as a board.

"You 'kay?" she asked, yawning. Her feet were pressing into his jean-clad side. He resisted the urge to move to a different bench, had there been another for him to sit at.

"I'm fine," he told her, sighing. Down the corridor, he could see all of the people who were waiting to go in and perform, to earn their rank. He saw Ezra sitting with his knees pushed all the way to his chest, arms wrapped around them, and even further down was Isla, who was sitting much like Anastasia was. She looked lonesome.

"You're _so _allying with them. I can already tell." Ace could hear the pride in her voice.

The first tribute was called into the room. He gave his sister a cynical glare, mussing her hair in a none-too-affectionate way, and ran into the arching double doors.

"Are you happy about that?"

"Well, I like them. Yesterday I was talking to Ezra—he's just a ball of energy, am I right?—and then there's Isla, who just seems to want to make the best of the situation. But she acts like his big sister, no? Even if you don't ally with them, _they're_ going to form an alliance together."

"They're the only ones here—besides you, of course—that don't look at me as if they're waiting for me to burst into flames, or at least wanting to light the match. That counts for something, right?"

"How could anyone hate you after knowing you for such a short time?"

Ace gave her a withering look. "Are you kidding me?"

She pressed her lips together. "Okay, I can see it. But that's not fair. You're decent, once someone gets to know you."

"_Decent_," he scoffed.

"Just promise me you'll try today in the private training. I know you, Ace, and I know what you're planning. This rank declares a lot, and if you're not good, you're not going to get sponsors or allies. It will be a lot harder to earn your life back."

"You should have to _earn_ your life _back_. It shouldn't be taken in the first place—and what are _you_ even planning on doing?"

Anastasia fixed her gaze on the opposite wall, seeming very entranced. She was not athletic, strong, quick, or clever. Anastasia did not have helpful sponsors or anything really. Ace and her both knew the only way she would possible win was with charm. She _did_ have a way with words, an alluring personality that made people have to like her. It was her only advance, and she was working with it as best she could, Ace could tell. If only that was worthy of a good rank.

"I don't know." The corner of her lips turned up slightly, as if thinking of a fond memory. "Maybe I'll ask them to buy me a drink."

"I don't think they'll find it as funny as you do," Ace mumbled, slouching his shoulders.

"Will you try, Ace? Promise?"

Ace sighed. "Yeah, I suppose. Well—What does try mean in your dictionary, exactly?"

Her small brown eyes reduced to slits. "Persuade them, Einstein."

The girl victor from One entered the double doors.

"Yeah, yeah."

There was a moment of contemplative silence. Ace wondered if he should speak up. He was not good with small talk—or any talk, really, though it had become easier as of late. Silence to him was comforting in a way that it was always there to help you with anything: sleep; work; relaxation. It was unlike Anastasia, who Ace learned hated the silence because there was nothing there to distract her, a silence that was too loud for her to get in the survival mind set. He knew it was like that for some people. The silence told you things you knew you never wanted to hear, and only in it would your greater demons be let out of your closed mind, a conscience that would never shut up. But for him… it had been life. The quiet life in the back side of District One. The settling sound of Noah's stable breathing, silence so there was nothing to wake him. Silence was, in most forms, reassurance. But it was not him who needed the noise then.

"Don't go into the cornucopia, okay?"

She turned her head toward him fractionally, eyes still on the wall. "I—what? Why? I hear they have _really _good supplies there, remember? And frankly, I'm going to need all the help I can get."

"Weren't you listening at the table, Anastasia? It's a bloodbath. Only the skilled people go in, and no offense, but you're not that skilled, or strong, or anything. You'd have a much better chance at survival if you run off somewhere undetectable and stay low for a while. There is no doubt in my mind that you'll be murdered within the first minutes of the game if you don't do as I say."

"Just my luck," she hummed.

"I don't want that. I don't want for you to be murdered—I don't want anyone to. But we're in these games for a reason, and if there was any a time to be a realist and think logically—though I'm my opinion that's all the time—it would be now. I'm trying to help you, Anastasia, because I want you to last longer than these bigots."

Without answering, she nudged him with her elbow and jutted her chin in the direction of the wall. In the cement poked the black frame of a video camera.

"The blue tag," she said under her breath.

The blue tag. The _audio_ tag. And its little lens was focused on Ace and Anastasia. His heart sank.

Just then, the intercom that called out names spoke his brother's.

Ace stood up, shook the feeling of uneasiness from his legs, and walked into the doors of the gymnasium, feeling the stares from others bore into his back and fighting a desperate desire to run a hand through his tousled hair. They saw him. They _saw _him. The heard his name: Ace.

He was very lucky (or unlucky): the gamemakers had only been there for an hour at most, and he had better attention of them than others might get. Still, how to hold it? What to do with it? He could answer many questions, solve many riddles, but what to do when all eyes were on him? He didn't enjoy the attention. He didn't enjoy the ignorance.

The room loomed before him, high archways and towering walls topped with a silver domed ceiling and metal rafters. That itself seemed more intimidating then the tools and weapons that were bound to go unused in his presence. But he thought of Anastasia out there who had this chance and was going to do the best with it and still not get that high of a score. She was going to try and fail, and he wasn't going to bother to try at all, when he had a chance for survival. It seemed unfair. Everything about Anastasia seemed unfair those days.

So he got up. And he tried. And he threw daggers and lit campfires and (feebly) shot an arrow at a body bag, all for the pour girl who was going to die a pathetic death—he hoped for better, but it was his philosophy: hope did absolutely nothing. Hope did not care whether or not she was strong-willed, or lived a harder life than most, or cared for him more than most people would, when no one else could. Hope and fate did not take her life and characteristics into account. They let bygones be bygones. They didn't care how much it would hurt people, and—

Ace stopped. No. That was enough. It was foolish of him. The gamemakers did not bother to stifle their snorts of derision, and many of the broke out into loud peals of laughter. A lump was forming in his throat. Didn't they care at all? There he was making an idiot of himself in front of people he'd rather punch in the face all for a chance at life that he shouldn't have to fight for? And it was funny to them, watching him squirm? But they didn't know his life, who he was fighting for, his boring life story. They didn't know him. They never would.

He stood there like a board and stared at them, stony faced, his arms too weak to move.

"You're dismissed," one of them called out.

"No, I don't think I am," Ace snapped. "You don't _think_, do you? Isn't it obvious? You're killing everyone. You're killing me, and I thought maybe I would win this, but you—you will be the death of me. Don't even _bother_ telling me what to do. You're all murderers and assholes."

And Ace left the room—not out the door on the far side of the Gym, where he was supposed to go—to the double doors from which he came. Many of the people gave him gasps or snorts as he erupted red-faced, but Anastasia just looked worried.

"Don't tell me anything has gone wrong, Ace. You promised. You promised me you would try!"

Ace just shook his head. He'd never felt a stronger emotion than rage. Sometimes he thought it was the strongest emotion of all.

"I think they want you now," he muttered. "Break a leg, but not really. That would only make them happy."

-.-

_The square smelled like baked break, firewood, and cold night air. Ace's feet hit the cobblestones with small padding noises as he made his way down the busy street, parting the crowd with an outstretched hand. Passersby were marching, running, strolling in all different directions. They yelled in languages he didn't know, some he did, and stopped in the middle of the street to buy something at the occasional kiosks—homemade purses, a pound of fudge, a plethora of vibrant scarves. The stone path was lined with two columns of shops, foreign restaurants, and snazzy night clubs. _

_The wind picked up, and Ace pulled his long coat around his body more securely, making his way over to a seemingly invisible café that lay squished between a barber shop and an Irish Pub._

_A knot of children passed his table in bright colored clothes, legs and arms exposed for the summer night mosquitoes to take advantage. He could pick out only a few of them: Sherri Dulvetto, a girl whom he'd talked to a few times with displeasure; her raven haired friend with a bad temper but a sweet smile; and Elaine Opal with her signature ripped jeans and ski vest. He'd only _truly_ met the first._

_Sipping his wine (which he got underage by "pure" charm and a lack of intelligence from the waiter), Ace's eyes finally found the person he'd been waiting for._

_Noah and their mother sat down on the tables next to him. Noah's face had color for the first time in a while, and it blended with the white of his teeth and the blue of his eyes._

"_I'm surprised you came," Ace mumbled towards his mother, offering a sip of his drink which she just glared at before dismissing it._

"_Someone had to help Noah here," she snapped._

"_I could have."_

_Noah chimed in before their mother could make a mess of the day. "I can help myself."_

"_No, you _can't_."_

"_Let's try not to ruin this day," Ace offered. He picked up the menu and handed to them, watching out of the corner of his eye Noah, shaky-handed, flipping through the laminated pages. He'd finally gotten well enough to leave the house, and yet the way his body shook made it seem as though he wasn't ready just yet._

"_Take my jacket, Noah. It's cold."_

_Before Noah could protest, Ace had shed the long black coat and draped it over the younger boy's shoulders._

_Their mother ate in silence, but Noah knew how to make the situation less awkward by attempting (and sometimes failing) to give Ace a playful Indian Sunburn when he wasn't looking._

"_Ow!" Ace laughed, knocking over the glass of ice water next to him and having it shatter on the stones below. The couple trying to have a romantic date in the table next to them gave the brothers a nasty look and turned to their own devices._

"_He's not going to get any if we ruin their date," Noah chuckled._

"_Poor kid. Look what that woman ordered! He's going bankrupt."_

"_Poor girl, I'd say. Look at the sweater he's wearing," their mother quipped._

_Both of them turned around. It had been the first time since they could remember that their mother had joked with them._

_Noah pulled himself out the shocked reverie first. "Why don't we got to the field and watch the fireworks tonight?"_

"_You two go on ahead. I'm going back home and finishing up my work." And with that, their tight-lipped and scowling mother left a little bit nicer than when she arrived._

"_We're not going to the fireworks," Ace demanded. "Let's go. I want to show you something."_

"_But we told Mom—"_

"_Mom doesn't care about me, okay? She may care about you, but not me. And she certainly won't care where we go. You're never allowed out of the house, and I want you to have something you haven't done before."_

_Ace threw some change on their table for the broken cup and the half eaten meals, and hopped the gate of their restaurant._

"_Come on! Take my hand!"_

_Without hesitation, the brothers clasped hands, and Ace shot off down the block, dragging Noah behind him. People who were walking by shouted obscenities at the pair as they darted through the crowd and knocked numerous people over. The turned a steep corner and Noah skidded to a stop much like a cartoon._

_The night festival was in full swing ahead of them, music blasting from hidden speakers and children running around with feathery boas and flowers strung together to make Hawaiian leis. A large float was passing by pulled by two latched horses, on it sailing ship with men hanging off dressed it pirate gear and hooked hands._

"_Wha—"_

"_Get on!"_

_Without thinking, Ace hopped on to the float and reached down to pull Noah up with him. The people watching the parade weren't allowed to bounce on top of the show, but those who were several feet below them started to clap, and a pirate pulled Ace back with a grimy hand, handing him a black eye patch._

_He whispered, "If you're going to crash the float, make it look good. Try to steal the loot."_

_Ace made a mad dash for the chest full of painted gold, ducking under the worker's arms and dragging Noah along with him, who had a sloppy grin on his face. He pushed the younger boy forward. _Get it_, he thought, and that's what Noah did, lunging for the chest and wrapping his arms around it until the crowd started to cheer and jump on board also, making the only festival Noah had even been to also the best one._

-.-

Fae woke Ace up before dinner, which was uneventful. After it they gathered in the small room with the television and waited for the scores to start playing. Anastasia looked emaciated and exhausted.

"How did the…?" he tried to ask, but she just shook her head.

Both of the children from District One got nines. Fae sunk in her seat, but clapped nonetheless.

"I'm going to get a low score," Anastasia mumbled. "I did horribly."

"You truly look like you're going to be sick," Ace whispered back. "Do you feel alright?"

She waved a hand just as Noah's name was called and Ace's face was shown on the screen, the fake blue eyes Genevieve made glowing.

Three.

_Shit._

Anastasia gasped. Fae shrunk in her seat further, saying something about earning her way to District Two and failing, and Micah just covered his face with his palms.

Then her face appeared on the screen.

Three. Impossible.

She didn't wait to see everyone's reactions. Her face turned an awful shade of puce and she ran for the nearest bathroom, leaving the door open.

Micah nudged Ace's shoulder. "You're supposed to go help her."

Ace's eyebrow furrowed. "I am?"

He nodded, and Ace sighed, leaving his comfortable seat to enter the bathroom without knocking. Anastasia was kneeling in front of the toilet, bent over with her hands grabbing at the stray pieces of hair. Ace shoved her hands away and held her hair back for her instead.

"You don't have to worry about this, you know. You rank does not decide who wins."

She let out a strangled sound. "I didn't _do_ anything. I sat there. I should have gotten a zero, but the only reason they gave me a three was because our district makes their _weapons_, and they don't want to admit that anyone who was trained in the Shift, a _bloody Capitol-made facility_, could possibly be that bad. It was my _only _advance. And not what? My allies won't stay with me anymore. I know it, and I didn't even earn a three."

Ace tried to swallow, but he resisted the urge to sigh, too. "You can woo them over again. I'm sure of it." He tried to grasp the strands of hair that were falling out, pulling them back and twisting them between his fingers.

She sat back and wiped her mouth. "What did you do?"

"I yelled at them. I tried at first, but I think I called them murderers. And assholes."

To his surprise, she laughed softly. "Murderous assholes: A Capitol Story."

"Are you done? I think I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"You've been napping for hours."

"Napping is good for the soul."

"_Anything _is good for the soul nowadays."

_**Review!**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Have you ever had one of those terrible weekends that spiraled into a terrible week? Yeah. Having one of those. Happy independence day to anyone from America, I guess.**_

_**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**_

Fae curled a piece of her orange hair around a slim, clawed finger and looked Ace over. After a moment of pursing her lips, she held out a pair of men's dress shoes and a suit tailored for someone a lot beefier than he was. He changed in the bathroom and erupted a little disgruntled. The pants were too short due to his lanky stature, but they were baggier because of his skinny legs, and the shirt and jacket appeared plain silly. He could see that Fae was holding in giggles when he walked in.

"Now, with a girl this would make a lot more sense, because often they don't know the correct way to walk in heels. You won't be in heels"—("Thank the world for that," Ace muttered)—"but some men don't know how it feels to be in a suit."

"I feel ridiculous," Ace told her.

"Well, to be fair you _look _ridiculous, but you won't be wearing that one, so don't worry. We have a while together, Noah. I want you to walk back and forth down this hallway and get the feel of it."

It was the most idiotic request he'd ever been given, but Noah would have done it without complaint, and that was who he was supposed to be, so he obliged. In retrospect, wearing a suit felt like wearing anything else in the world. They were pants. All pants felt the same, and he'd worn his father's old suit to the Reaping, so he was familiar for the most part. District Two had never had a problem getting silky fabrics and clever-fingered tailors, even if his family had never wasted money on them.

When he was done, Fae lectured him on something he wasn't listening to, and when she let him leave, he was thoroughly relieved. Esme and Nye were waiting for him in his bedroom. Ace pictured Anastasia with Julian and Claude now, sitting in her bedroom and trying to act sweet and polite.

"Get off my bed," he growled when he entered the room. "There are chairs _right there_."

"Oh, you're moody today," Esme sneered, but did as she was told.

Nye laughed. "Well he just got back from training with Fae for a few hours—I don't blame him in the least."

"But then again, you clearly haven't been friendlier like we told you to."

"I don't know," Nye smiled, wiggling his eyebrows, "you've been getting _real_ friendly with Ana over there."

"She's in love with a girl named Elaine back home," Ace deadpanned. "I wouldn't even _try_."

"Little Elaine Opal? I used to babysit her."

"Then perhaps you remember that she had a nasty bite and a good follow through in her punch?"

Nye shifted in his seat. "Yeah, remember that, too."

Esme frowned and cut in. "You haven't been friendlier with _us_, you haven't been friendlier with the _kitchen staff_, you haven't been friendlier with _Fae_, or anyone! The Capitol and watchers don't like introverted antisocials, Noah."

"There isn't anything wrong with being introverted, and just because I am, it doesn't mean 'antisocial' is immediately a part of the package deal. I just hate _people_, and there isn't much I can do to change that. Sometimes I find people that don't annoy me, like my brother Ace, and _Anastasia_—not Ana—and sometimes Nye. And for your information, I _have_ found allies with other tributes, and you know what? They _like _me."

"Well," Esme scoffed, "isn't that miraculous."

Ace nearly lunged at her, but kept his ground as he watched Nye push back her shoulders and tell her to keep her "big fat mouth shut before someone throws you into the games with all the other tributes and besides yelling at him and getting into arguments will do the exact opposite of making him friendlier you idiot."

"Noah, who are the people you're allying with?" Nye asked once he'd pushed Esme out of the way.

Ace crossed his arms, realizing how stupid that it might have sounded if he said a twelve-year-old boy who barely knew how to through a knife and a lonely farm girl. So instead he just muttered, "People."

Nye didn't press. "Well, that's good, at least. And you aren't going to ally with Ana?"

"No, I won't be. But I wouldn't mind helping her if she needed it."

"And I'm sure the situation would be the same if it were reversed."

Nye and Esme, teasing one another the whole time, began to ask him questions, to which Ace tried to answer as naturally as he could.

"So, Noah, what are you plans for the games?"

"That is the stupidest question I've ever heard, Nye. Why would I tell everyone my plans? So they can figure out a way to beat me? So they can use it against me?"

Nye's eyebrows disappeared above the hairline. "So far no one knows who you are, okay? You have a three on training, yet you act overconfident, and those two aspects contradict each other. People recognize your face, but they are confused, and you're going to be asked to give up a lot of personal information. Chances are that question will be one of them."

"That's horrible," he said.

"That's the Hunger Games."

So Nye continued with the questions.

"Why do you want to win this competition?"

_Stupid question. _"Because then I'll be _alive_." Of course he couldn't say that it was for his brother, so that he could win and give medicine, and so that his brother wouldn't have to suffer in his place.

He was scolded for that answer, but another was fired right after: "How do you like your stay at the Capitol?"

"It's _pretty_, I guess, but I've never had a thing for appearance, which is a vain quality."

"_Right_! As if you're not vain, Noah! This isn't going to work!" Esme shouted. "Lie to us!"

"Lie to you? I love it here. The showers are always hot, the beds don't make me feel suffocated at _all_, and the group here make me feel as though I'm _not_ going to be murdering people in two days time. Now get out of my room!"

Ace slammed the door more for dramatic effect than because he was angry. He crawled up onto the bed and wrapped himself in the sheets, wondering how it could have gone so wrong in such short of time. And he had almost forgotten the audio tag that had heard his name, the audio tag that would possibly kill his brother, the audio tag that could have ruined his whole plan. But of course no one had mentioned it, and people already knew who he was. Chances were, if they did know, they couldn't take him out now. They would have to put him in the games and kill him almost immediately, while effectively killing Noah at the same time. It was almost inevitable.

But he didn't want to jump to conclusions, so Ace buried himself deeper into the silk, getting lost in the feeling. His now close-cropped black hair was tousled and wanton, because Ace did not like brushing it with the Capitol product in the bathroom, and Fae had yelled at him many times before about it. He thought about unknotting it before deciding that was a bad idea. So instead he ate his dinner in his room and left his plate on the ground, falling into a sleep before he even knew it.

-.-

_The day that Ace found out Noah was sick again, he'd been away in the downtown, hopelessly avoiding Sherri Dulvetto. She followed him around and asked him to go get food, and he just wanted to know what she really wanted and why, exactly, it was him she wanted it from. He'd finally escaped, leaving the girl shy, stuttering, and slightly crestfallen at the unsaid rejection._

_His mother was leaning over Noah's bed when Ace came home, wiping the drool from his chin and spoon-feeding him a bowl of old oatmeal._

"_What's wrong with him now?" he asked quietly._

_She glared at him as if angry he'd disturbed the peace with his presence, even though he had made sure to make his voice slow and soft._

"_Hell if I know. Rising temperature, I suppose, and he's been vomiting all night. The home reeks of bile."_

"_Then call the doctor, how about?"_

"_If only I had that kind of money," she snapped and left the room, dropped the now empty bowl onto the crooked kitchen table and leaving the house all together._

_Ace sighed as he tucked his brother in, listening to the sound of his breathing, and escaped to his room. He wondered if anyone could be so innocent, so guileless and still have the worst luck of them all. And yet he didn't have to wonder, because it was his brother through and through. _

-.-

In the morning, Genevieve and Alecto combed his hair for him and styled it in a way that made it look purposefully untidy, like the cover of a magazine, and then they painted his skin a different tone to bring out the blue of his eyes and the whites of his teeth. On his arms they drew on tattoos of vines that intertwined and curled in different directions, sometimes with thorns and sometimes with flowers that were disturbingly the color of blood. He knew it was supposed to make him look fierce and mysterious, but when they stenciled the name "Andromeda" onto his neck in swirling calligraphy, Ace protested.

"What—what is _that_?"

"It's a name, _querido_," Genevieve soothed him. "Nye and Esme chatted me up saying that you needed a more mysterious and sensitive side to go along with your—quite frankly—nasty personality so that way people will remember you. People will ache for the boy who fell in love with a swooning maiden in District Two."

"You've been reading too much romance, Genevieve," he complained and tried to rub it off with his hand. It didn't budge.

She showed him the pencil she was using to draw the tattoos, and he cursed. _Herondales_. _Shit._

"It won't come off for _weeks_!" she giggled and kissed his forehead (quickly wiping it off and fixing the makeup).

She bathed him in hairspray, to which he coughed. It made his eyes water, and she yelped. "Ac—Noah! You can't cry, those contacts get soggy really easily, and they will fall out."

"I'm not crying," he insisted as she replaced them with new contacts when Alecto had run downstairs for another Herondales Pencil.

When it was time for him to leave, Genevieve burst into tears and hugged Ace. Over her shoulder, Alecto was staring a bit awestruck at the two.

She pulled away, kissed his forehead once more, and ran out of the room. It was the last time he'd talk to her (unless she came back to District Two for a visit again). Remembering what Micah had told him, he turned to Alecto and said, "You're supposed to go help her."

His eyebrow furrowed just as Ace's had. "I am?"

He nodded and smiled as Alecto ran down the stairs to where Genevieve had taken cover.

Micah was waiting for him in the other room. Ace was dressed in slacks that actually fit, a dress shirt (with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the long, twining branches), and black vest to go over it. He frowned when Micah attached a pocket watch to the vest so that the chain was exposed.

"It was our grandfather's," he murmured. "I even talked it over with the game makers. They said that you could take it into the games. I think… I think it might be useful."

"Oh," Ace said quietly. His throat had closed up as he stared the gold instrument in his hand, thumb running along the intricate etchings. "That's… wonderful. Do I get a jacket to go over this?"

Micah shook his head and fixed Ace's collar. His fingers trailed along the tattoo on his neck.

"Andromeda?"

"I have no clue," Ace laughed.

He smiled slightly. "Well, she sounds lovely. In my imagination. Just…" He trailed off gently. "Just be yourself, Ac—Noah. I know that… I know that you and I never…" He looked very strained. Ace almost considered calling another person in to see if he was okay, but his pupils hadn't dilated or anything. "I'll see you soon."

-.-

In the elevator, Anastasia was beautiful. Her hair, though quite short, was curly. It was messy, like Ace's, but in a way that she could actually pull it off, given her history of matted, psychotic hairstyles. It was strange not to see it in a braid, but Ace didn't mind.

As soon as he saw her outfit, he understood the theme, the Victorian style vest, the pocket watch. Though she was not decked out in a full on corset and puffy ballroom gown, you could see the old-fashioned red velvet of her dress that only extended to her knees, the ribbon that criss-crossed on her back to keep the waist tight, and the red flower in her hair suddenly made perfect sense. It was the same flower drawn onto his arm.

"Well," she laughed, "who knew that deep inside stuck-up ol' Ac—Noah there could be someone as dashing and handsome as the person in front of me now?"

Ace nearly smiled. His face burned, but he answered: "I certainly didn't. And I don't think my stylists did either."

"But what I don't understand is what the Victorian Era has to do with making weapons."

Ace shook his head. "The interview gowns and suits are freestyle. They didn't have to dress us with our district job. And they don't necessarily have to make us matching, but, uh, apparently they did."

She looked down, and the rest of the District Two staff piled into the elevator: Genevieve; Alecto; Nye; Esme; Julian; Claude; Fae; Micah; and Anastasia's stylists, Hannah and Denim.

Ace and Anastasia lined up as third and fourth people for the interview, and then soon after took their seat onstage as one large arc. The brother and sister's (of District One) interview were very short and to the point. They were trained and fierce. They didn't _need_ to make an impression, because people knew who they were. But then Anastasia glided across the stage to her place next to Caesar Flickerman, who was looking striking with his lilac-colored hair, and gazed out to the waiting crowd.

"Anastasia!" he said as he stood to kiss her cheek. Ace was surprised some of his purple lipstick didn't rub off on her. It must have been made by Herondales.

"Hello!" she greeted him, and it almost takes him back how different her voice sounds when she's taking up an angle, like a soft Christmas bell. It was easy for someone who didn't know her to assume she's generally a happy person and confident for the win.

When she sat down again, he looked her over, grinning. "Look at you! So lush! So new!"

Ace snorted audibly and the three people behind him gave him glares. Could Caesar not tell the theme was supposed to be old fashioned? Or did they need him by her side to make that distinction?

"Oh that's too sweet, Caesar. Look at _you_!"

Caesar gasped and turned to the crowd. "You're just a little charmer, aren't you?"

Anastasia laughed, and Ace almost hated her like that, so fake and odd. It was so unlike the real Anastasia that Ace wanted to vomit. The one person he truly could stand here was acting like _them_, not that Ace could blame her, considering he was about to do the same thing.

They joked for a few moments. Anastasia told Caesar about how back home she was a town offical's daughter (which earned her quite a few points to the sponsors) and about her little brother, Jamie, who was watching her now (with a silent wave to the camera). She was too good at her role: friendly; likable; confident. Maybe because she _was_ the first two. Whereas Ace had to lie his way through and hope that it all added up right.

"And when you were called, Anastasia, what were you thinking?"

The crowd quieted down from spewing fake laugher to listen, the mood suddenly very grave. At least they recognized that being chosen was not a good thing—that much Ace did not expect.

Anastasia took a deep breath and looked at the ground, as if trying to gather her thoughts. Caesar Flickerman's hand was on her knee, and after a moment of contemplation, she murmured, "I was terrified. I knew that, unlike some of the other tributes that come from District Two, I was one of the lesser qualified, but at the same time, I was almost _proud_, as if today and so on and so forth, I had the chance to really prove myself."

"And I'm sure you will, Anastasia. And your brother Jamie knows that, and so do we—congratulations."

When she was done, she practically floated back to her seat next to Ace, giving him a reassuring squeeze to the shoulder before he got up and made his way over.

"Noah Brickham, District Two tribute. How do you feel today?"

Ace didn't know how to answer that—he was supposed to be friendly, right? But that didn't mean he couldn't say he felt horrible and disgusted—what exactly constituted as "friendly"?

"Looks like someone is a little nervous," Caesar laughed, as if trying to bring him back to life and give him a chance.

Ace thought_, Not good_.

"Ha, no—no I actually feel quite nice being here. Everyone is so lovely, and I've met some great people."

Part of it was true, so Ace felt better about acting like he meant it.

"You like it here? Well that's great. Who are these nice people?"

"Well, my stylists are wonderful—Genevieve and Alecto—and then there's my designer, Micah, who was absolutely brilliant with putting together Anastasia's and my outfits. And then, of course, our Mentors—Julian, Claude, Esme, and Nye."

Caesar leaned in. "And Anastasia?"

Ace swallowed, wondering how he should answer a question like that. _She's wonderful. She's better than all of you. If only she actually had a chance_. "She's lovely. One of the best personalities I've ever seen."

"And quite beautiful," he amended.

"Yes—yes, of course."

His eyes twinkled, and Ace could feel his gaze on his neck. "But it seems like you have a girl of your own back home, yes? Who is this Andromeda you have tattooed on your neck?"

The crowd oo'ed and aww'ed at him, and the camera zoomed up to Ace's tattoo to show the beautiful word.

"Oh her? I mean—Andromeda. My girlfriend."

The thought of Ace having a girlfriend made him want to double over in sick laughter. He would have never gotten a girlfriend, even if he wanted one. But the idea that anyone could like him—even the crowd of people who were holding up signs, some with his brother's name on them, couldn't like him all that much when he'd done nothing to deserve it. They didn't like him for who he truly was, just what he was pretending to be. But for a moment it was okay, because it felt real.

"Tell us about her! How did you meet?"

It was a damn good thing Ace was so good at lying. And it was a damn good thing he knew exactly what would make the crowd love him: a good sob story topped with a brilliant heartbreak.

"Well—we—uh—It started out like any other relationship. We met by accident—a wonderful, brilliant accident where she was lost in downtown District Two, and I escorted her back to her side of the town, and it sort of blossomed from there. Before then I had no idea how lucky a person could be to have another in their life they could talk to about anything, and I mean about virtually _anything_, without any fear they would judge you or have the habit of thinking it useless or boring. And I'll tell you, Caesar—if you find someone who can make you feel like no one else in the world matters in the slightest, someone that will tell you bad news without fear you will be upset, because they know you're strong enough to take it—don't even let them go. She was the only person in the world I was sure I loved."

The crowd was eating out of the palm of his hand. "And what happened then?" he asked seriously.

"She got sick—horribly, horribly sick, and then one day it just became too much, and her body gave out. I didn't have the money for medicine even though we put our family's finances together. Though it wouldn't have mattered much, because we didn't know what was wrong with her. She always thought I would be the last person picked for the Hunger Games. Last November...she died in her sleep and was buried under the great oak tree in her back yard."

Everyone was silent. Ace wondered what Anastasia's face looked like. He wondered what Noah and his mother were thinking at that moment. They couldn't have believed his god-awful lies. But what if they did? What would they think of him then, that the completely unlovable boy had had someone who cared for him?

"What do you think Andromeda would have said to you now if she were here?"

Ace bit his lip. It was easier to make up a story than to make up a character. "She…she would have told me that I had just as fair of a chance to win than anyone else, and that I'd better use what I have."

"What is it that you have, Noah?"

"More than people give me credit for."

It was a good thing the crowd was so silent. Out of all the fake giggles and vacant smiles, the silence seemed the most real, that for a second they weren't the Capitol junkies and murder sponsors, but real people with real emotions, who were listening to what he had to say. The silence reminded him of home. _Silence was comforting_.

But the buzzer sounded and the crowd resumed to its normal state, and Ace Brickham was told to sit back in his seat, and just like that, he was back to what he'd always been: invisible.

_**Review!**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Sj,. –bangs head on keyboard-**_

_**On the contrary to that thought, I saw the amazing spider-man, which only confirms my love for Andrew Garfield. This chapter was also written in fragments, so sorry it took so long to get up. It's hard to piece different works together. It still doesn't really… flow that well, so sorry for that, too.**_

_**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**_

Ace woke in the middle of the night, right when the stars were their brightest and the full moon hung in the dark sky obscured by the thin slivers of grey cloud. He felt heavy. Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead and the fabrics of his clothes to his body. The heat made it uncomfortable to move, but in some hope to find cool air, Ace rolled around. The action effectively made the sheets twirl and tangle at his ankles.

Knowing it was stupid of him, that in just a few hours he'd be on his way to the arena, knowing that if anything, a good night's sleep was what he needed, Ace silently left his bed and padded down the hallways. Anastasia's door was just a small distance away. He shouldn't have been waking her—they both needed as much rest as they could get—but he had the sense that, like him, she wasn't sleeping well, and he was inevitably correct.

The light from outside her window left a moon trail that cut across her room and onto her bed. Because of it, he could see that her blankets had been shoved onto the floor, the pillows at her feet. _Thank the world_, Ace thought, _that she doesn't sleep naked. That would have been awfully uncomfortable_.

He made his way over to her bedside and felt a lump well up in his throat. It was weird to see her sleep. Not uncommon, because she tended to make a habit of dozing off on the couch or at the table, but Anastasia looked more carefree unconscious. She slept like a child, curled up with her hands folded neatly under her cheek, mouth open just slightly. She looked so at rest, in fact, Ace nearly felt bad for disrupting it—nearly.

Later on as he sat in the arena, he would be happy for having—what, assured her? Get it off his chest? Making a back-up plan? He didn't know what to call it, but he realized that the physically weak part of Anastasia would need to understand before going in today, because sometimes charm and friendliness wasn't enough for the tough guys. So he awkwardly prodded her shoulder with his pointer finger and whispered her name until her nose scrunched up and she swatted his hand away.

"I have enough trouble getting to sleep at night lately, thank you very much."

She didn't sit up, which Ace considered a good thing. It would have been harder for her to fall back asleep if she had.

"I need to tell you something."

"Well, go on then," she yawned, half-lidded eyes looking at him wearily.

"In the games…if you need help or if I need help—say our allies are killed or abandon us, or we're being attacked and need backup, why don't we have some sort of signal for each other's help?"

She seemed more awake then. "I didn't think you would need my help."

"I don't. I won't. But, um, it's to heads are better than one in those games."

"But _you_ have such a big head it's nearly three," she laughed sleepily. "Hmm. Mr. Confident here wants help. Okay, what's the code?"

"Well, the more it doesn't sound like a code, the better, right? There really isn't much to choose from considering we don't know the kind of arena, how big it will be, or what tools we'll have to make the signal."

Some kind of emotion played on her lips. "We should do a howl. Kind of like how the dogs at the kennel downtown used to call for one another, and then suddenly every dog within a mile radius would be screaming and barking."

"Anastasia, I don't want to be a dog."

She rolled her eyes. "Not like a _dog, _exactly. That was just an example. I figured there was going to be animals there—or at least there might be a chance—and people would just think that it was just another one. But ours will be more like a werewolf baying at the moon or something, rather than a bark. Though—though I think howling as I'm dying would be kind of a shitty way to die, and very shitty last words."

"Then a howl if we need something, and a name if we need backup. Because if we're a second away from being stabbed, the tributes around us won't give a damn what we scream, and it couldn't attract more attention then we'd already have."

"Why not 'Jamie' then?"

"Your brother?"

She nodded. "People would think I'm thinking about my family—which in all honesty, I very well might be—and they won't consider I'm asking you to save me. And you… well, I don't think you'll be in danger all that much. Isla there is a better fighter than I could be, leg injury or not." She paused for a second and then sighed. "I don't know how big the arena will be, though, Ace. What happens if I don't get to you in time? What happens if I don't make it?"

"I promise not to hold some sort of grudge against you in my death if so, Anastasia."

She closed her eyes. "I would say 'ditto,' but no one says that anymore. So, uh, likewise."

-.-

Ace eventually did fall into a dreamless sleep, surprisingly calm for the next day's high stakes. But the moment he opened his eyes, something was wrong. There were voices.

"Noah Brickham," said a voice thick with a Capitol accent.

Ace made sure his face was unreadable before sitting up and seeing the four large men standing in front of his bed, Fae behind them and trying to make herself noticeable. They were not there to escort him—that wasn't how it was done, and Ace had been expecting something like this for weeks. They were the audio tag. They were the ones who, if he was proven to be Ace, would be murdering his brother.

"That would be me," he mumbled, still heavy with sleep. "Are you here to escort me? I thought I'd at least be allowed breakfast first."

The one in the middle—by far the skinniest and oldest, despite his complete lack of wrinkles or skin imperfections—stepped forward. His hair was such a pale blonde it looked white in the florescent lighting. His skin was stretched tightly over bare bone; his all-too-prominent cheekbones would have cut you with one slap.

"Step out of bed, Noah."

Ace did as he was told. He was only in a pair of blue boxer shorts—it would have been embarrassing for several grown men to see his scrawny, boyish body if the situation hadn't been so serious. Was his brother even alive? Some part of Ace didn't want to find out.

"Please state your full name and date of birth."

"My name is Noah Salvio Brickham. I was born on the 27th of January, 2077."

"What kind of illness did you have before you were given the prototyped medication?"

"Gosh, that was prototyped? That's not very professional."

The man smirked at Ace. He had unnaturally white teeth, the same shade as his hair. "This is not a game, boy."

"Of course—I mean, it was never diagnosed. My mother and brother tried to raise money for a doctor, because I'd always been sickly, fading in an out of severe illnesses, but we never really had enough."

"What did your family do to earn that money, exactly?"

"Working at my Uncle Peter's bookstore, _Peter's Books_. My mother stayed home and took care of me and my brother Ace would go there after school—every day from dusk 'till dawn after he'd graduated—and try to earn something. Sometimes Peter gave him a little more than he deserved, though. He felt bad, I think. No one would really tell me much."

One of the more burly men spoke up then. "We could always do a check. Of course the boy would know everything about a family member."

"No," the front man said. He was still looking at Ace, almost amused. Like watching a little girl get scolded, as if that were humorous. "No, I'll ask him a few more questions. Your brother—state his full name and birth date."

He was expecting Ace to trip up. He expected that, if Ace wasn't Noah, to pretend to mess up on his own brother's birthday. Of course he thought such a thing. "Ace Fallan Brickham. Born December 5th, 2076."

"You don't look very sickly."

"Then I guess that medicine doesn't have to be considered a prototype anymore," Ace muttered.

"You almost look a little muscled—like you've been carrying around heavy loads. Books maybe? Are you sure you never helped out your dear brother Ace?"

"I tried," he whispered. "I tried so many times to get him to let me, and Ace never allowed me to leave my bed. My mother would push my back down, and I'd lie there for another day. Do you know how terrible it is to be bedridden, to be practically useless to everyone who is working so hard?"

"I do not," the man replied. "But you—oh you don't look very nervous, now do you boy?"

Ace pressed is lips together. He tried to make his face sad, almost sympathetic. He'd never been so.

"This is the first time I've been allowed to roam freely, to fight for what I've wanted instead of letting everyone dot he hard stuff for me. I'd been suffering, and now I'm not. So of course I'm not nervous. I can try. And even if I die in these games, I won't be dying as worthless."

"Such hard words on yourself," the man tutted. But he was far from pleased. His eyebrows had disappeared into his hair, mouth a thin line. He stared at Ace for a moment, face expressionless, before saying, "Fae, will you please escort this tribute to breakfast? He's got games to fight and people to kill."

There were many people who gaped at their boss, some who started to protest loudly, but the tall man silenced them. "But if I get any more suspicion out of you, boy, you'll be going down with the rest of them."

-.-

Ace was not allowed to see Anastasia. Micah looked at him sadly as he handed Ace a tight shirt to wear, right before he was put on a large hovercraft and injected with one of the most painful needles he'd received: tracker. Ace just bit his lip and stayed still as the smiling woman did her job. After gorging down his breakfast, eating enough so that he was full but not enough to get a stomach ache, he was taken aside by Micah and given his clothes.

The pants appeared like black, skin-tight denim, the kind you would see people wear on the cover of hardcore, tuneless rock band albums. But when touched, Ace recognized the nylon fabric immediately. He tried to make his face unreadable so no one would see his awe. He slipped them on and found they were very warm. The shirt was like any other you could find in a department store: long sleeved; dark blue. Also very warm. Ace could already tell where he'd be going. He knew too much for what he would have liked.

He was handed thick-soled boots that laced up and a coat that went to his thighs and tied at the waist, build to keep in body heat. So far up in the air, Ace was sweating. He tugged at his collar.

As he got the hang of his outfit, Micah looked him over and, eventually, slipped the pocket watch into his jacket.

"Remember? They said you could bring it. Even though it will tell you the time of day, no one saw that as an advantage, because it doesn't help you win or hurt them. Look—" He flipped the watch over where in the gold was carved OLIVER BRICKHAM SR.

"Take care of it, Ace."

Ace was never good with moments like that, one pooling with sentiment and care. He was supposed to say something kind or reassuring, but logic wasn't on his side. The truth was the watch would be easily ruined, especially when one took in where he was going. Part of Ace felt the need to give it back, just out of concern for the keepsake's safety, except he knew what it could do. It could not hurt to have an extra hand of time.

So he said thank you and goodbye, told him to give his regards to Genevieve, Alecto, and the rest of the staff (Fae and the other victors were probably roaming around somewhere, gathering sponsors for two of the most unlucky tributes to come about), and he stepped on the circular silver platform as the glass tube slid around him. The last thing Ace saw was Micah's face. He was old and unfamiliar of a sight, yet somewhere in the features Ace could see the boy he knew from home. Could this have been what Micah wanted all those years? Preparing people for their death or for their inevitable futures as respected murderers? Ace found it hard to believe that anyone in the world could have that in mind. Ace put it behind him. Micah would just have to deal with it.

He was in darkness for a while before erupting into the stadium.

Ace stifled a hiss. Of course. It was stupid to believe the arena would be something scary or even mundane, because if anyone could take something so pleasant and turn it into a massacre, it would be them. The arena was not dead wastelands or smashed concrete, but a child's perfect heaven, so fondly and at the same time horrific—a forest blanketed with snow so high it reached the knees where no patch of grass could be seen. The only way Ace could tell it was a forest were the large standings of trees that occasionally showered snow with a ruffle of the wind. Flakes bit at his cheeks and nose.

It reminded him of so many memories he didn't want to awaken of Christmases back in District Two, holiday shopping, and of course counting down until the new year—(that one had always seemed ridiculous to him, almost like celebrating that fact it was one year closer until the sun expanded, exploded, and killed them all, or better yet, another year has passed of people murdering each other and betting over who wins like a lottery game at the local bar). Still, a winter wonderland? That was cruel, crueler than Ace could have made it, especially for the children, who would be traumatized every second before death. He knew from the moment he received his outfit it was going to be snow, but never had he imagined it would be so beautiful.

He couldn't stare anymore, but the countdown clock still had thirty seconds left. He was very distinctly aware of the gap in the small standing of trees at his sharp right, which, judging by the looks on the other tributes' faces, no one else was planning on heading.

On either side of him were, coincidentally, the tributes from District One, brother and sister. The contestant on his right had not slept the night before. There were marks on her face and hands from where she had laid on them, and dark purple crescents latched under her eyes. She was weak and eying the black duffle bag not twenty feet in front of her. That was a bad choice. She was feeble and headed for a blood bath and her brother was doing the exact same thing, and it was most probable that, just as Ace had predicted the night of watching the Reapings, they would kill one another off.

He silently wept for humanity.

Anastasia was looking at the standing of trees behind his head, which would also be clear. He felt a strange surge of pride for her when he realized what a (surprisingly) brilliant choice she had made, and an even bigger one when he'd observed that, despite his sudden appearance, she'd gotten a good night sleep and ate a full breakfast.

Fifteen seconds left. Ace caught the eye of Isla, who looked sad. He flicked his eyes in the direction he was planning on heading. She pursed her lips, doubtful, but Ace just smiled at her. She needed reassurance, and he had it. Finally, she smiled back.

That was a relief. Ace had assumed that he'd be alone for these games, which wasn't a bad thing, but he'd told many people that Ezra and Isla were his support system, even though he'd never actually confirmed that theory.

Seven seconds left. He got into running position.

Three seconds left. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—_

Run.

_**Review!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Hello! A couple updates:**_

_**My NaNoWriMo novel is posted on wattpad (There is the prologue and then there is the first chapter up so far), and I have a link on my profile for anyone who wants that. It will also be up on fictionpress ( 's other website for novels only) in a bit a day or two. **_

_**A couple songs are mentioned in this chapter. The first one is "I'll Follow the Sun" by the Beatles. The second is my absolute favorite song EVER, so don't disrespect it. It's "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac. The last one, from which this song is titled, is "Can't Help Falling in Love" by Elvis Presley. **_

_**Chapter ten—double digits. I almost feel proud. :')**_

_**I think this might be the longest I've made you guys wait for a chapter. For that, I am horribly, horribly sorry. I don't really want to talk about why, but there was kind of an emotional blow to my family lately. I've been trying to help out, but I haven't forgotten you guys! Promise!**_

_**Anyways, here it is! I hope you like it. It only took about a day to write, but I haven't checked any of my emails or been on here in a very long time. **_

_Noah looked at his brother with a lazy smile, sweat dripping from his brow as it became harder to breathe, and asked, "Ace, are you afraid of dying?"_

-.-

The arena was not as simple as he would have thought. At first, his plan worked perfectly; Isla, Ezra, and Ace ran to the gap in the trees, and no one followed them. Their path was clear, and they were going as fast as one could run when trudging through snow up to their calves, sometimes knees. But he was aware of the hotspots in the otherwise freezing air. His fingertips turned red, white, then blue, but when he ran through certain parts of the air, the temperature was unreasonably warm, like the surroundings of a fire. He only had time for a second to gape, impressed, when he found the first one—how could the gamemakers made an arena so cold yet polka-dotted with hot air?—before Isla glanced his way. It was not a typical woman's stare, but like a man's, straightforward, imposed, forceful, as if wondering if it was a good idea to run over and pull Ace to safely. He obliged to the unspoken order himself to save her the trouble and took cover in the trees.

His lungs felt like sandpaper that rubbed together with every breath, but even that friction did little to rise his temperature.

"Oh, God. This is not really happening," Ezra moaned."Snow? Of all things?"

"Did you feel the hotspots?"

They both nodded.

"There has to be some around here. We can use them not to freeze to death."

"I'll look around for one," Isla said. "Might as well make myself useful with this leg and all. Plus, we could build fires in them for food."

"Ezra, you're small and light, which makes you perfect for climbing trees. Think you can hop up here and snap some of the weaker branches? Isla's right. The hotspots are perfect places to build a fire, so the leaves can be burned as well as some of the twigs, and the bigger ones can help with shelter."

"Ez!" Isla called, "be careful up there and don't fall!"

He rolled his eyes like any other generic twelve-year-old and started scaling the trunk, stepping on the thick, unbreakable branches for support. Ace caught everything he broke off and put them into a pile. He wondered what Anastasia was doing then, whether or not she had survived. Pretty soon, the cannons started to blow, as if attuned to his thoughts. People in the cornucopia bloodbath. He counted six uneven booms.

"Oh, Goodness," Ezra gasped.

"Just keep throwing them down! Yes—the big one there—there you go."

Just around the time the pile was a substantial amount, Isla shouted in a hushed voice, "Found one! Only a few feet down here, and the place is completely clear of other tributes by a long shot."

So together, Ace and Ezra hauled their work to their new home and immediately began to warm their already-numb limbs in the hotspot.

"Feels about sixty-five—maybe seventy degrees. That's nice."

Isla beamed in pride. "Plus, look how far it goes around—a ten foot circle at least, we can have a fire and sleep in it—well, sleep in it a little bit. We might have some of our limbs sticking out depending on how much room the fire would take up. And the trees above us will keep most of the smoke in. But I still say we wait to make a fire until we have something to roast."

"True. We don't need the warmth right now, but what we do need is something to eat. I'm not hungry, but I will be," Ezra said, sitting down next to Isla. She put her arm around his shoulders.

Ace wondered how they met; how could two people from two completely different places come together and act like family, like they cared. They couldn't have spent much time together, and yet she acted like his mother, coddling him as if he was a child, scolding him in case he got hurt, wiping dirt off his face with her thumb. But Ezra didn't seem to mind. Other than a few comments, he didn't seem to mind anything. He sat in the hotspot, legs crossed, and head resting on his knuckles. A position so like his brother's, eyes drifting up to the canopy of leaves, where snowflakes were falling through and then dissolving as it hit the top of the warm air. They fell as water into their hair.

"The people from Six are the most skilled. They have the mind-set and the muscle, definitely a big competitor. Since the Careers this year kind of suck, they're the new ones. If I wasn't here, I would they they're going to win."

"But you are here, Mr. Cocky. Are you planning on taking them out? And what about the tributes from One? They seem skilled and eager."

"They're dead," Ace said shortly. "And Anastasia and I are not exactly trained."

"You aren't trained?"

"Well, no. I'm not. And Anastasia doesn't know much on the topic, but she is with them, the big shots. That either means certain doom or protection, I'm not sure."

"Do you care that much? That's sweet."

"She's my only backup."

"In case we get killed?"

"In case we get separated."

-.-

Ezra soon developed a talent for climbing trees. He scaled the bark and got splintered stuck in his hands, covered in sap. He was, in all irony, the bread winner, throwing down fruits like apples and oranges from trees ("That's not right," Ace muttered, "these can't grow in the winter. Freaking gamemakers are throwing me off my mark") and pulling leaves. He was not too great at it at first, though, and when he came tumbling down ten feet to land (thankfully) into the pillowed snow, Isla was livid.

"I thought I told you to be careful! Goodness gracious, Ezra, do you want to give me a heart attack?"

"_I WAS being careful_!"

"Please, just sit down and eat the fruit. We don't have much left, but you haven't eaten all day."

"I'm not hungry!

"Ez—!"

"No! I'm going to go look for more fruit to pick. These trees are bare."

"You don't have any weapons!" she cried, trying to reach for the back of his hood or jacket—anything to pull him to safety. She missed because Ace tugged her back by the shoulder.

"Let him go. This place is deserted for the most part. Just don't stray too far, Ezra."

He nodded once and left, dragging a big branch behind him to cover his tracks, just like they had taught him. They both took comfort in the fact that it could also be used as a weapon, and Ezra would not hesitate if that was needed.

"I'll be careful," he shouted, as he rounded a corner and then disappeared in the clusters of snow-covered thickets.

Ace could tell he was—careful like a schoolboy trapped in an adventure book, cautioned as a boy scout ready to take on anything that crosses his path, ensnared in a hero's daze, unaware of the absurdity and the improbability of his tasks. He was proud. He was brave. He was a good liar, especially to himself, but that didn't mean Isla was out of line.

"You need to stop treating him like a child," Ace said when he was out of sight. Isla continued to stare at the empty patch of land in front of her.

"You don't understand."

"I do. You act like his mother, and he's not your child. You barely know him, _anything_ about him."

"I just don't want to see him hurt, that's all. And he's so young and foolish sometimes, like with that whole tree thing. He knew there was no fruit up their anymore, but he climbed it anyways because he was _bored_. And for goodness's sake, what happens when he's _not_ bored? That'll only be when he's scared or in danger, but he's always in danger, so I don't know what to do other than try to minimize it. He, out of anyone, deserves to live, being so young and innocent."

"There are a lot of people here who deserve to live, Isla, you and I included, but this is the Hunger Games, and no one cares about that. You have to trust him. He's twelve, not two."

"What happens if he falls from a tree and hurts himself? Snaps his vertebrae or his neck? There's no way he could survive then."

Ace pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. Their "campsite," as one might call it, was feeble but useful. There was a bump in the snow where they had buried their fruit, and the ten-foot patch of land that was all grass had an unused campfire in the center. "Do you think he has a great chance _now_? He barely has any, even less since he's one of the younger tributes. He wants to _help_, and who are we to say he can't? You're not his mother. You never will be."

She stomped angrily to the other side of him, and he saw again, just as he had with Anastasia, that he's gone too far. But she looked resigned and stopped complaining, so he felt it okay to talk again.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I didn't think you knew how to apologize," she whispered. "You didn't seem the type."

"A friend taught me how, I suppose you could say. Either way, I am. He'll be fine."

"Noah, he volunteered for his brother. He's brave, and he's proud. I don't know what it is about him, but I just can't stop the feeling that I need to make sure he lives, even if I die in the process."

"I know the feeling."

"Do you really?"

"Of course. Plenty of people do, and I, like any other human being, have people I care about and want to guard, but that doesn't mean I can all the time."

"A philosopher, you are."

"I try."

-.-

But when Ezra came back covered in blood, face with an unhealthy pallor, and fingertips slowly turning blue, Isla shrieked and immediately began to rip off his clothes underneath the blood. He stopped her, pushing Isla away.

"Stop! It's not my blood, I'm not hurt!"

"—I _told _you he would run into somebody. Oh, Ezra, oh, please don't do this to me again."

Ace didn't think it was wise to be so emotionally attached to someone who was (Ace hated to admit) going to die, but he thought the relationship was interesting. He's never been in a situation where one could get so attached to another in a short amount of time, to feel to motherly.

"Stop!" he yelled, but he looked comforted, leaning into her hug. His face returned some of its color as he sat in their hotspot and placed a red-stained backpack beside him, flipping the brass eagle latch and taking out multiple fruits as well as many other items: rope; an extra pair of leather gloves; a blanket; matches; a dagger; and a hand warmer.

Isla stared, awestruck, at the pile, but Ace just laughed and picked up each item, twisting the hilt of the knife so it glinted. "Where did you get this, Ezra?"

"I was walking down there, beside the trees, and I saw footprints. I did what I had to—I climbed a tree all the way to the top—it must have been at least thirty feet—and I looked out over the leaves to see a body in the snow, but there was no one else anywhere close. I hadn't heard a cannon, so I waited there a while, but he still didn't move. That's when I noticed he had a backpack in his hand, and I thought, _why the heck not_, and jumped down to get it. He was dead, absolutely, but the knife was in his chest, oozing blood. It was disgusting and horrible, and—ugh. I felt so bad, because I knew him, and he was nice, and he was _my age_. He was only twelve. So young, and I would know, because people keep on telling me the same thing. That I'm young. Anyways, so I picked up his bag and cut some fruit down, taking the knife from his chest."

"Who was it?" Ace asked. "There was no cannon. I know for sure. I would have heard."

"That's just the thing." He looked at Isla. "It was your guy. Dayton."

Isla covered her mouth with her hand.

Ace remembered him. Anastasia had met him. What had she said? _And Dayton, who was so sweet, I seriously just want to hug his face…_

"But you know what that means, right? There was no cannon, and he was definitely dead, so why did the Capitol not want to tell people he was dead? We all know what happened." Ace muttered.

Isla nodded. "He killed himself. Oh, he was always saying how he couldn't do these games; how he would never forgive himself if he became a murderer, but also would never forgive if he made someone else become a murderer. Unless, of course, that person was himself. I can't believe it—he was twelve! His parents…"

"The Capitol saw it as an act of rebellion and didn't fire the cannon."

Ezra, who was staring at the knife in Ace's hand, the same knife that was impaled in Dayton's chest not too long ago, sighed and rested his head on Isla's shoulder.

"They will probably play his face in the fallen tonight, and everyone will just assume that he was killed at the Cornucopia," Ace murmured.

No one would get to see Dayton's final moments. Would anyone see his?

"I don't want to do anything right now," Ezra murmured. "Can we just go to sleep?"

"Yes, darling, go to sleep."

-.-

She sang to him when, in time, Ezra admitted he couldn't fall unconscious. "I keep seeing his face," he murmured, head on her shoulder. He was so small and short that he looked more like a six-year-old than a twelve-year-old, able to fit on her lap easily, arms around her neck. And even though he wasn't, he acted like a child also. The arena brought out an adolescent in everyone.

Still, Isla was able to calm him.

She switched from one song—

"_One day, you'll look to see I've gone,_

_For tomorrow will rain, so_

_I'll follow the sun_"

—to another—

"_Well, I've been afraid of changing,_

'_cause I've built my life around you,_

_but time makes you bolder,_

_even children get older,_

_I'm getting older, too_"

—to another, until he was fast asleep—

"_Take my hand,_

_and take my whole life, too,_

'_cause I can't help,_

_falling in love with you._

_Like a river flows, so surely into the sea,_

_oh, Darling, so it goes._

_Some things are meant to be."_

"Those are old songs," Ace murmured when Ezra's breathing was slow and even. "Impossibly old. Before the Dark Days."

"Yeah, they're old. But so is my family. We have some broken vinyls—well, broken _now_. I thought they might help. I used to sing them to my little sister."

Ace didn't know what to say. Night was just starting to fall over the site, and he was distinctly aware that the cameras were probably on them. Twenty minutes, tops, until the fallen started playing.

"I'm still thinking of Dayton," she murmured, and Ace tensed. He didn't like making polite conversation. They were supposed to be his allies, not his friends.

"Ezra was very smart to take the bag from him. I'd say we did well for our first night, with a weapon, food, and shelter. There's no harm."

"There's always harm," she murmured, head against a tree. "But that's the thing with Ezra. He acts tough, like a grown up, but it wears him out to do it until he just collapses and acts three times younger than he is."

"How had your little song gone? '_... but time makes you bolder, even children get older, I'm getting older, too…_' That's the difference. He's starting to realize what it's like to be in the Hunger Games. It's not a fairy-tale adventure, and in these places we either crawl up into a ball to calm ourselves or we go and act too old, like we're wiser than any old monk or bearded wizard. We get killed, and people die every day, but it shouldn't be by the hands of someone else. Dayton should have died in his sleep, or by old age, or because he was sick…" _Oh, shit. _Ace felt like he was going to be sick. How could he have said that?

She smirked. "It almost seems like you're coming to terms with that, too, Noah."

"Shut up," he said. "Shut it—just—just don't talk."

"No," she murmured. "But don't worry. I'd bet Andromeda would have been proud of you, had she been here. She may have died young, but at least she wasn't murdered."

Ace touched his neck where the name of his imaginary girlfriend still rested. The skin around it was slightly raised. "She _was_ murdered. She was murdered by her disease."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said, but forget everything. I was being… stupid."

"Don't act like you're the only one who's lost someone, Noah. I lost my sister in a fire when I was twelve."

"I didn't mean you hadn't," he explained, but she kept on talking, as if to herself.

"My parents were burning some of the broken branches left on our crops—it was typical to do at that time of the year. We needed to sell our carrots and grain and all of that to the Capitol to earn a few bucks, so we were clearing the land. She was only six, and she didn't know any better, but that didn't mean she didn't take the consequences of pouring too much gasoline onto the burning pile. No one even saw that she had the gas until she was on fire. Screaming. Sitting there. We all learned how to stop, drop, and roll in preschool, but it's like when the moment came she froze and didn't realize she had to focus, and who could blame her? I sure can't."

Everyone had a sob story. Everyone had a background. Everyone died eventually, just in different ways, but he wondered how many deaths made others personally offended and affected. He'd lost someone—many people in fact—and she'd lost someone. He wouldn't have been surprised if Anastasia or Ezra had also.

"I'm sorry."

Maybe they were all murdered. Maybe dying because of old age is being murdered by time, and dying in an accident was just being murdered by a car, or a fire, or by alcohol. Or maybe he was just sick for thinking so, because his brain wouldn't leave him be, and he always had to tear a thought apart before leaving it behind in the disposed caverns of his mind.

"I'm going to go watch the fallen. You stay here with him, and I'll go somewhere I can see the sky."

She nodded, vacantly pushing the raven hair out of Ezra's face, thumb tracing the curve of his jaw.

Seven people died that night. Ace watched their faces pop up on the screen. Both from Twelve, both from One, Dayton from Eleven, the girl from Ten, and the boy from Eight. Thankfully, Anastasia was not up there. Unthankfully, the worst of them were. Eighteen to go.

-.-

_Noah looked at his brother with a lazy smile, sweat dripping from his brow as it became harder to breathe, and asked, "Ace, are you afraid of dying?"_

"_Sometimes," Ace said after a moment. "But not really. We all die eventually. Being scared is not an advantage."_

_**Review!**_


	11. Chapter 11

**I—um—I. Well, don't kill me. I know I haven't updated in **_**so**_** long, nearly a month, but I have an excuse, if that helps! The beginning of the month was my summer vacation to New Hampshire. It's a long trip there, and that's where I wrote my recent one-shot **_**Rule Number Three**_**. It's so, so, so beautiful there on Lake Winnipesaukee—a place that, coincidentally, is the setting of my NaNoWriMo. Being there gave me a surge of energy to write my novel, but what it didn't do is give me motivation to write about a blizzard with the Hunger Games. When I got back I was just so blocked up. I couldn't write anything for weeks, and it was exhausting. I was ill for about a week , and then my family kept having parties. Three days ago was my brother's twenty-third birthday. But this happens a lot. When a lot of stressful things happen in my family I go through severe writer's block, one that pressures a lot until I get it out of me. So this chapter may not be as well as I would have liked, but it works. I think—I think I'm out of my block, and you can't even know how happy I am about that. I've always hated those periods between stories.**

**On another note, I was thinking of writing my own parent!lock fanfiction. I've had this idea in my head for ages, and I am only new to the parent!lock fandom, so I'd thought I'd give Hamish Watson-Holmes a chance. I don't know yet.**

**And, like always, my NaNoWriMo is linked on my profile.**

**Sorry for the wait, and without further ado…**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

* * *

He woke (abruptly, completely) to the sound of shaking leaves.

_Second day of the Hunger Games. Seven people are dead. I am not one of them. I will not be one of them._

Ace's fingers closed around the dagger he'd stuck between his belt and trousers. He was aware of the possibilities. Intruder. Attacker. Animal. Lost child. Lost murderer. A broken branch collapsing. Isla or Ezra?—no, he could hear their snoring on his sides, both breathing steadily in unconsciousness.

Slowly, he raised his eyes. The man above him, gathering leaves while resting on a thick branch in the tree, did not notice him. He was bleeding heavily from his head and had lost both of his shoes. His feet were blue, slowing verging on pale purple. His hair was tipped with ice.

Ace could tell with his limited view of the sky and trees that the blizzard had picked up in the hours of night, pelting the ground in clumps the size of his fist. They hit his—Stephen's, he remembered—skin in small sprays, the tree breaking up and snow too compacted. Even the hotspot had gone down at least fifteen degrees Fahrenheit.

But the man paused, and his hands shook with the leaves they held. His collection spilled to the ground, littering the snow (and Ace's face).

It took him all of two seconds to realize what was going to happened next, and in the time, he rolled out of the way as Stephen collapsed. His body landed exactly where Ace had been sleeping.

Isla screamed and jumped up, scrambling for Ezra as she watched Stephen shake horribly on the ground. Stephen was too far gone, and even now in the heated circle of their hotspot, he was still going to die. Ace rolled him out of the way and into the snowbank, where he could freeze to death in safety. Ace felt bad, but not bad enough to care about it. There was nothing anyone could do without the right supplies.

"Oh God, he's dying," Isla said. Her arm was wound around Ezra's narrow shoulders, and she clutched onto his jacket as her eyes closed in horror.

"What did you expect in a game like this?" Ezra said, and Ace was almost surprised by the bluntness coming from the little boy. "He's from Seven."

The three of them stared, unable to turn away, as the last shreds of Stephen's life were puffed out with his visible breath, and his violent shivering soothed out.

"His eyes are open," Ezra said, making a motion as if to go and close them when Isla grabbed him by the hood and pulled him back.

"You don't know if he has any diseases," she hissed, but Ace went forward for him and closed his eyelids, well aware that the cameras were on him. He silently thanked Genevieve for his contacts. With all of the big-mouths in District One, at least one of them would have recognized him otherwise, not to mention the man's warning.

_But if I get any more suspicion out of you, boy, you'll be going down with the rest of them._

-.-

"It shouldn't be this easy," Isla mumbled. "We must do something other than sit here, or it will bite us soon enough." She smothered her blonde hair, raking fingers through it and melting the snowflakes that caught on stray strands.

Ace sighed and dropped the stick he'd been using to draw in the snow. He was colder than normal, but not nearly cold enough to freeze or for it to cause discomfort. "People go days in this arena, milling about and wasting energy, when they should be conserving it like us. We have the necessities. We're in a hotspot on high land, well in the woods without any close tributes, with ample fruit and drinking water. We have knives, and hand warmers, and rope, so right now we have to rest."

"They will start to interfere."

"Yes," Ace said slowly, "They will. Soon enough, or maybe right now, they will see that we are having it too good, and they will send a tribute our way, or turn us around. Maybe they'll make out hot spot alarmingly colder than the outside of it, or maybe they will just send a bunch of tornados about. We don't know, but right now, nothing's happening."

"Ezra!" she called. "Ezra come back here, you're wandering too far!"

The boy paused out in standing of trees, bag of fruits strapped to his back and sleet/snow hitting his head every few seconds, before calling back, "I think there's something going on out there."

"Obviously. Someone's probably getting murdered, Ezra. It happens in the arena."

"But I hear animals!"

Ace stilled—Isla noticed.

"What does that mean?"

"What kinds of animals, Ezra?"

"I—I don't know. A dog maybe? It sounds like a howl."

Ace didn't wait. He hopped up and snatched his knife, slipping it between his belt and taking the backpack from Ezra before dumping the fruit out and filling it will most of the supplies. He left a few important things in case they might need it.

"I don't understand," Isla murmured. "Should I be worried? Those dogs could be very far away."

"There are no dogs."

Ezra crossed his arms defiantly. "I definitely heard a dog."

"Will you just _shut up_? There is not dog, that's…" He looked around, sure that no one was too near to hear. "That's Anastasia's signal that she needs to talk to me," he whispered. "We made it up. She isn't in trouble. I know that, but it means that… something is urgent. If she were in trouble, then she'd be screaming 'Jamie'. Her little brother."

Isla crossed her arms. "Anastasia? Your girl?"

"What are you talking about? _Your girl,"_ Ace mimicked in a degrading impression of her southern drawl.

"Well geez, Noah, if you just wanted to go talk to her, you could have just said so. I mean seriously! Gettin' us all worked up over nothing!"

He rolled his eyes and slipped on his gloves. "I have to go. I might not be back tonight, so don't be worried if I'm not there"—("We won't be," Isla snorted)—"but still check the fallen to see about Anastasia or, hopefully, those from Six. If I never come back… well, then—well then I don't come back."

Ezra frowned. "You'll come back. Here—take some fruit."

"I used to think you were pathetic, you know," Ace told him. "I used to think that you weren't going to try, and it would have been the death of you."

Ezra's grimace deepened. "Well, you were wrong."

"No, you just changed your mind, and so did I."

-.-

Ace Brickham had always been able to trust certain things, his mind being one and science being another, and within the course of a few days, the Capitol had somehow managed to take that away from him. _Fruit on trees at this time of year!_ He didn't know whether to be angry or impressed. Hot spots? Mutts? Microscopic cameras?

As he trudged through the knee-high snow of the arena, he realized that maybe his brain wasn't the only tool needed to win something like this. That maybe he'd overestimated himself. He was, after all, traveling through a freak blizzard for a girl in no immediate danger. He needed information, nonetheless, and maybe her cronies might have some.

He stopped every once in a while to listen for the call. It was very faint, but still audible, and nothing like any other dog he'd heard. Sometimes he would call back, just to let her know he was on his way, but whether or not she understood was beyond him.

When his feet ached and his eyes had watered too much from the wind hitting his face, he slowed and, with whatever strength he had left, climbed his way up a short tree for a rest. The branch was thick enough to hold his lightweight.

It was then, as the relief of stress washed over him, he was attacked.

Nails—claws—talons—whatever they were, they tore at his clothes, his jacket ripping down the sides. He felt teeth on his face and his collar, and whatever it was, and then there was more than one. It was no ordinary beast, definitely not something that happened in nature, and once again, Ace hated the Capitol for screwing with his only defense.

Ace tried to reach for his knife, but the other mutt was smart, saw the shiny dagger, and lunged for it, clawing the handle with his paw and working it out from underneath his belt. In the process, the blade cut a sizable amount of skin on his stomach, and Ace's cry of pain was muffled by more attacks to his face. Most of them were deflected when some pressure was relieved from his body, and he rolled out of the way, grabbing the knife the wrong way in his haste, and cutting his hand. In one swing, he stabbed the dog in the side, trying not to cringe as he twisted the dagger and heard the crack of a broken rib cage.

But the other was still alive, so Ace twisted around immediately and came face-to-face with his brother—or maybe it was him? The Capitol was famous for making tribute-looking animals, but this was not normal. The eyes on the dog were bright blue, the color of his contacts and Noah's irises. This was a message—this animal was not meant to kill him, but tell him that, soon enough, he would be. _We're still suspicious_, it said, _and watch your back_.

Ace observed, incredulous, as the mutt turned and escaped into the woodland. His knees felt weak, and oh, God—there was no howl. Anastasia did not want to see him, it was them he had heard and had gotten confused. He left the safety of his shelter after being so _stupid_, one thing he prided himself on escaping. How could he have screwed up the one chance he had?

Ace's legs gave out; he sunk down into the snow, now stained with blood—was that his? His right arm—his dominant arm—was severely broken, and though he wasn't a doctor, Ace was sure it wasn't supposed to be bent so... oddly.

Did he continue on to find Anastasia and get information after coming all this way, or did he go back to his allies and rest his injuries? His eyes were watering again. Genevieve had told him the only contacts that lasted long enough would lose their color if wet. Ace was pretty sure that he shot that horse in the face a long time ago, but he couldn't tell if they were green again. In case, he shut his eyes.

With a hand warmer making his fingertips pink again, he ripped the dagger out of the beast's belly—left hand, of course—and stared at the trees in front of him. He'd been howling for Anastasia before. It was possible she heard. She was useful he said to himself. She was useful, so she was worth it.

And he took off into the woods, cradling his injuries in his arms so they didn't leave a bloody trail in the snow.

-.-

After the third mile of silence, Ace almost felt the need to speak aloud, to hum to himself, but was well aware of the possible consequences. He liked silence. He always liked silence, but it had never been so filled with paranoia, and he realized how Anastasia must have felt, having always hated it.

He felt sick when he heard a scream not far away and then a canon fire. It was followed by peals of laughter and loud teasing.

"Did you hear that? She was such an idiot! Lighting a fire a night as if we wouldn't notice. Iris, we're going to win this thing."

"Don't count your eggs before they hatch," sneered a particularly high voice. That itself was enough to send another hoard of giggles out.

The voices were getting closer, and Ace recognized them as the two from Six, the two that were allying with Anastasia. Ace ran immediately to the nearest tree, climbing it and taking cover in the clusters of leaves and branches. He howled loud enough for them to hear, and he felt like an idiot for doing it. However, the chortling stopped.

"Did you hear that?" Iris said.

"Yes, you dumb shit, c'mon. It went this way. If it's an animal, we can kill it for food."

"I—I think I'll look this way, then," came Anastasia's nervous comment.

There was a noise of assent, and Ace could hear the sounds of her footsteps as she ran in the opposite direction. Of course, she was going in the wrong way. From his height, he could see her faintly in between the trees and thickets. Again, he howled, and she stopped, looking around. It was the two from Six coming his way. They were not injured, and the worst part was that they were armed. Iris had a bow in her arm, and Kateb had a celestial bronze sword. They erupted from the trees and continued to walk, getting closer to Ace, who was hurt and stuck in a tree with only a small knife, which needed close, hand-to-hand-combat for use—that had never been Ace's specialty.

When they stood directly under him, he thought, _I could kill them. I could kill them right now. Just throw the dagger_. The problem was, throwing it at one of them would alert the other to his presence, and leave him lacking weapons.

Ace didn't dare move. He didn't dare breathe. But his wounds were oozing blood and dripping on the branches with soft _pat pat pat_ noises, and he knew it was going to be the death of him. Who was he kidding? He never had a chance in these competitions. The least he could do was kill one from Six and leave Anastasia, Isla, and Ezra more of a chance for survival. He drew back his hand and aimed it at Iris, who was ten feet below him and staring stupidly with the back of her head towards Ace. One shot. Could he throw as well with his left hand? Were the cameras on him? Was it safe to look up without them catching him? Did it matter if they caught him anymore? But of course it mattered. Noah's life was at stake.

The dagger was about to leave his finger when out of the woods came a gut-wrenching dog bark, and the two tributes below stilled before bolting to where Anastasia had run off, but she wasn't there anymore. Ace exhaled in relief, she was speaking at the foot of the tree, looking up with a crooked, devilish smile.

"You called?"

"Anastasia, you are literally the most amazing person on the planet. I have never been more happy to see you. I really thought—I—"

She smiled softly. "I heard you, and I knew you were in trouble. Should I…?"

"I'm hurt. I can't move right now."

"Hurt?" she said, frowning. She swung one leg awkwardly on a low-hanging bough and pulled herself up, gasping at his bloody body.

"I may have realized that I was being a bit over-confident during training. I don't know how to live without my brain. There really are dogs out here, Anastasia. I heard one, and I thought they were you asking for help. I tried to come over and see what you needed, but they attacked. I killed one. Another is still out there."

She stared slightly open-mouthed as his chest, which was marred with several long bloody scars, and then to his arm, which was badly mangled, and his face, stinging painfully with bruises and a split lip. He suspected a broken nose, too.

"You need to put water on it," she said weakly. "I have a little time, but they are going to come back—here." She picked up a small handful of snow resting on the tree branch and squeezed until it dripped water down her wrist and onto his cuts. It burned.

"Oh—fuck."

"No swearing," she scolded.

"I thought that maybe I would have an out _one time_."

"I'm a little disappointed, Noah. I thought you were doing well."

"I thought I was, too. But clearly you have done better than anyone else here."

She sighed. "I hate them. I've seen so many people die already. I've puked for hours straight until I threw out my back, and they only get angry at me for it. I'm not so sure this was the best idea anymore, but they're taking care of the people I don't have the guts to kill."

"You can come with us," he said abruptly, and then regretted it. She would have a better chance with the ones from Six, obviously.

"No," she said. "No, I don't want to be a burden. I don't think I'll be alive much longer, either. It would just be a waste."

"Anastasia—"

"But I'm not upset or anything. I get it. People die all the time, and it doesn't bother others this much. I was going to die eventually."

"Anasta—"

"Me dying now means a better future for more people, right? Ezra—he is such a small kid, and I barely know him, but he deserves more than this. You—you don't deserve to get mauled, and Isla? She seems like such a sweet girl. Me dying would ensure a possible future for them."

"Anastasia, shut up!"

She bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just exhausted."

"You're not going to die. Not now, not ever. This is stupid. We're going home."

And because he didn't know what else to do, he pulled her into a hug. "I'm not hugging you because I want you to feel better," he whispered slowly. "There are more important things right now than your feelings, like staying alive, and making sure others get that, okay? Don't let your emotions hinder other people's rate of death. It is your only chance. Truthfully, I'm hugging you because I need to ask you something, and I can't have people hearing. Understand?"

She replied by hugging him back, arms twining around his shoulders in a careful attempt to spare his injuries.

"Good. Now tell me, do my contacts work right now?"

She pulled back just slightly, small brown eyes watering, and pulled him in even tighter than before. He feared for a moment he was bleeding on her, an easy giveaway she's seen someone, but couldn't bring himself to care. She was smart; she would make something up.

"They're fading," she whispered. "Your eyes are slightly green. You have a bit of time left, but not much. I don't think the cameras will notice until it is more noticeable. I'd give it a day or two."

"I don't think I have a day or two. I don't think anyone does. This game is moving too fast. Everyone will be dead by then. I hate it—I hate time. I hate the Capitol." Ace pressed his lips together, his stomach dropping. He let go when he heard the sound of Six coming closer.

"It's because you can't shoot for your life!"

"Piss off, Kateb. No one needs your sass right now."

Anastasia caught her breath and turned to him. "They're going around and finding people who are alone, so don't go off solo again, okay? They don't want to fight teams until they have to. They are also making their way across the stadium, so if you go where they have already hunted, then you'll be safer for a while. Where did you come from?"

"East."

"We're going to get there in a few days. First we are making our way North East and then just East. Go back, get your friends, and head West. That's where we started, but there isn't any fruit there, so pack a good supply. The hot-spots are smaller, but there are more of them. Don't screw this up, Ace. I swear."

"I promise," he gasped. His breath was coming short, his fingers turning numb. The hand warmer was losing its heat, but there was another in his pocket. Ace pulled it out and handed it over. "Stay warm." And then, because he could bare the thought of them killing her before his eyes, he pushed Anastasia out of the tree—it was harsh, but it was necessary. She landed with a thud in the pillowed snow.

Anastasia composed herself, rubbing off the stains of blood as much as she could and wiping off the water. "You guys!" she yelled, sprinting to the two. "You guys, I think there's a pack of wolves over there. That's what we heard, but I swear we'll never take them all. They're three times out height. I suggest we start getting our move on."

Ace nearly laughed with pleasure as they headed North East, thanking whoever was out there, Noah, his mother, the world, for the wonderful person the Anastasia Rickshire was, knowing fully well that he did not deserve to have his life saved.

* * *

_**Review!**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Oh, god. Oh, goodness. What have I done? All I can say for this chapter is it was immensely hard to write, and yet it was still so—freakin'—short. And I don't even know how y'all are going to react, because it's kind of out of the blue, yet it kind of isn't if you think about it, but still. Bet you weren't expectin' that.**

**Let's just say I can't write death scenes **_**at all**_**. Probably not a good trait for those who write HG fanfiction. Thought it wasn't the way I wanted it to go, it had to go eventually.**

**Anyways, I started that parent!lock fic. There's two chapters up now, for anyone who wants to see that, under the name "Solivagant". And as always, my novel "The Support System" is linked on my profile.**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

* * *

Ace only allowed himself one moment of pure, uninterrupted rest before heaving a large breath and swinging his legs out of the tree. If he was going to get anywhere with his mangled body, he'd have to start immediately. There was no time to lose. When he reached the site hours later, Isla was—as usual—glaring off into the distance, and Ezra was—as usual—not there.

Ace collapsed onto the ground, shaking, and resisting the urge not to scream out his frustrations and pain into the ground. What good would that do? _It would be satisfying, _he thought to himself_._

"Ez is collecting twigs for a small fire in the morning," Isla muttered then shivered. "The hotspot is slowly declining in temperature."

"Tell him to get fruit then, too. We're heading off."

He explained to his encounter, of what Anastasia did for him, the information she'd given. Isla stayed calm for the most part, eyes only widening at the mention of the wolves—he specifically did not say that it was his brother that the mutt was named after. The Capitol already knew Ace got their warning.

"We need to leave right now."

She jumped to her feet. "But—ugh—_God_, Ace. No offense, but you're the biggest cripple ever right now."

"What are you implying?" Ace snapped. "From the moment I met you, you've been obnoxiously open about your life and feelings, Isla, even when no one wanted to hear you yap and complain. Don't you dare hold yourself back now. _What are you implying?_"

Her nose scrunched up. "For fuck's sake, Ace, I wasn't implying anything! You think we're just going to leave you here because it would be beneficial? Don't be a _moron_. We're taking you with us; I was just concerned!"

Ace was too angry to apologize. He could feel this tournament seeping into him, slowly spreading through his veins, like a poisonous, bitter insanity, an addictive and masochistic drug.

"I hate this," he moaned, but rolled over in time to see Ezra come back with bag full of fruit and a handful of logs. It might have been the fuzzy hue Ace's brain had at that moment, or maybe he was just mad, but Ezra looked unnaturally pale, a shade that didn't have anything to do with the weather.

He was talking. "I have the—oh, you're back."

"Ta, Ezra," Isla mumbled. "Gather your things, we're leaving. Heading somewhere much safer. But we don't have much time; we'll explain on the way."

He didn't question her—when did he ever? Instead he made a soft noise in the back of his throat—it might have been a stifled sob, or it might have been a hum of protest. Ace thought it was an awfully childlike sound for him, and then he remembered, _oh._

-.-

"Do you think we've packed enough fruit?"

Ace stilled. He said very slowly, "Yes. This competition isn't going to last much longer, I can tell. Give it a day—maybe an hour, maybe less."

Isla shivered and then turned to glare. "You have to say such things, don't you? There are still a lot of people in this competition—Us, those from six, that Ana girl, the girls from four, five, seven, eight, and both from nine."

"The boy from nine and the girl from five were both killed by Six hours ago. Didn't you hear the cannon?"

She huffed. "So… what? That leaves ten left?"

"Ten," he agreed. "But not for long."

"Stop being so cynical!"

"Stop telling me how to act!"

"Stop screaming, because if you do, I'm going to leave you both and take the fruit and logs with me!" Ezra snapped.

"Didn't know that jerk could feel," Isla muttered.

Ezra frowned. "You're both very bitter under pressure. I _don't _like it."

"Oh, the irony!" Ace nearly laughed. "He's the parent in the situation. How the tables have turned."

Isla turned away, clearly agitated. The snowflakes whirled around them in a beautiful flurry of crystals and water, and Ace didn't have the heart to appreciate it. His skin was raised in small bumps of goose flesh, and his heart was hammering in an unsteady, erratic beat. _Thump—thump—thump—thu-ump—thump—thump. _Had the Games driven him to paranoia, or was someone really following them?

He silently picked up the pace, the other two catching his hint and doing the same. When Ace was sure they'd reached the farthest west they could go without hitting the force field, he collapsed.

"Hotspot," he sighed. "It's a hotspot."

Ezra curled up into a ball in the middle of Ace and Isla. "I just want to sleep," he said, as if almost to himself. "I just want to sleep."

Ace didn't have the energy to ask what he meant, sleep-deprivation and injury-exhaustion winning over curiosity, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was strange, Ace thought, as the last shreds of consciousness slipped from underneath him, what paranoia did to him. It took away his thoughts, left him in such a daze that he couldn't even think, or he thought so much his brain shut down entirely. Maybe that was the point, to strip someone of their defenses and leave them susceptible to which they wanted to avoid.

-.-

Ace woke to screaming. It was high, girly, blood curdling, followed by another scream, much more boyish, and the smell of burning wood with smoke.

He jolted awake and found himself surrounded by fire. Scrambling to his feet and reaching for the dagger that sure as hell wouldn't help him, he looked around, and saw what was probably the most horrific sight he'd ever seen.

It was Isla, legs trapped under a fallen tree and surrounded by a halo of red and orange and yellow, flames liking up her face and body, so far from saving he nearly vomited right then and there. The skin was melting from her twitching body. _Oh, Goodness._ _Is this what burning flesh smells like?_

Ezra flew himself at her, and in one quick moment of thinking, Ace grabbed him from around the waist, and pushed him to the ground, covering him completely by his body.

He didn't even have time to wonder how a fire could spark in the middle of a blizzard.

"_What are you doing? She's dying! Isla! Help! ISLA!"_

"_You'll die, too, you great oaf! She can't be saved!_"

Ezra didn't want to hear. He flailed underneath Ace, clawing at his face and leaving little crescent scars that would eventually fade and disappear, leaving no trace of having happened. He kicked and bit and put up a good fight, but for someone so little and so weak, his attempts were useless. There was no way Ace was going to let him kill himself now—not like Dayton, not like Isla. His little kid wails, and his little kid face, and his little kid crying was completely gone when he started yelling again.

"_You're killing her! You're killing her! This is your fault; you're killing her, you monster! I always knew you'd betray us, it was too g-good to be true!"_

"_Stop!" _Ace was saying. "_Stop doing this!"_

It seemed that the cannon of Isla's death was mixed in somewhere with Ezra's yells of protest and Ace's attempts to stop him. He was in a bit of shock himself, his mind still half asleep and confused. He just knew that if anyone, Isla took care of Ezra because Ezra reminded her of her little sister, and people took care of their own. Isn't that what people were supposed to do when they felt highly of someone? Take good care of them, even when they didn't know how but in ways that would potentially be their downfall?

But where was the Ezra Ace had gotten to know? The maybe-child-maybe-adult who never acted how he should—where was _that_ boy? He supposed that soul had been killed in the fire, too.

If possible, Ezra got louder, his short arms putting in more force—not enough to set himself free but enough for Ace to groan when he took a punch to his broken arm. Was the fire dying down? Had Ezra stopped yet? But he was howling about something entirely different.

"_I saw them kill her: your little friend! Those bastards from six stabbed Anastasia, and I __**watched**__ them. She was __**screaming**__ for her little brother Jamie! That was your code, right? Jamie? But you didn't come, because you were too busy making your way over to us, while she was keeping her distance and defending your pathetic life! They found out about her helping you, and they got rid of her real quick. Gets you angry, doesn't it?"_

Ace snarled. "You're lying! You're doing this to piss me off!"

"I was there! I watched it with my own eyes!" He'd stopped moving underneath Ace's body, but Ace had already let go of him. "It was right when you got back, lying on the floor like some pathetic fool, and you had no idea you only friend had just been sliced up by some lunatics! But of course I didn't tell you they killed her, so if you want you kill me, just do it already!"

And it was like that that Ace's world shattered without any sound at all. A cord in his brain had been snipped, a quick, clean _clip!_ that wiped him of his thoughts, and he gave Ezra the opportunity to run out from underneath him, off somewhere to Isla's battered body.

-.-

Ace did not think rationally. He hadn't been thinking rationally from the moment he'd stepped foot in the arena, to be honest. What was it about that place that took him from who he was and made him a idiot? He didn't particularly care anymore, but he slightly liked not thinking. He slightly liked the adrenaline rush.

What he didn't understand was how Anastasia could resurrect him and give him _emotions_ when he clearly did so much better without them.

Look what emotions do to people! How silly to even bother with them.

But Six was after him. He had a knife. He didn't want to murder, but when did his wants ever matter anymore?

So at the first sight of them, he took Kateb by the throat with his non-injured hand and dragged him to the ground. The man was taken by surprise at first—how Ace got to him in the first place—and by the time he realized what happened, his lack of oxygen had hindered his ability to fight back. Ace watched as the color drained from the man's face, turning white, blue, then purple until the light left his eyes, and his jaw hung slack.

"Kateb?" called Iris's voice, and she rounded a corner to see her teammate in the snow. Comprehension dawned on her, and it barely took a moment for her hand to reach the blade on her belt.

"Come to see your friend?" she sneered and lunged. Her knife struck quickly, leaving a sizable wound on his abdomen. Thankfully, it was shallow, but still left him panting. "You just don't get it, do you? In this competition, people end up dead. It's a metaphor, you see."

She twisted her body until the blade dug again, this time in his thigh—deeper—hitting bone. Blood dribbled down the side of his body and onto his jeans. "It means life. One way, whether it be by someone else"—she emphasized by pressing the knife in—"or by weather, or by, let's say, a high power taking control, everyone's going to die, except for that one lucky bastard who survives, but then again really doesn't."

Ace didn't waste time. He took his knife and stabbed Iris between the shoulder blades as she gestured to the body of her companion on the ground. Iris flexed and screamed, stilling for a moment before collapsing and leaving Ace to fall too without the support for his weight.

Ace lay on the ground, eyes open and threatening to spill over with tears, and he saw in the sky something he never thought he'd see again.

An aircraft.

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**Review!**


	13. Chapter 13

**It has been brought to my attention that there are very few chapters left, if much at all, and that this fic will not end as happily as I had planned. But alas, it will end nonetheless. I suspect about two or three more chapters, and then voilà! I don't know, guys. This is kind of a big deal for me. I'm excited.**

**Anyways, more death. Sorry for that last chapter, it was absolutely hideous and ended with perpetual confusion, but I hope this makes up for it. I'm not as ashamed of it as I have been the last few chapters, but it is still aggravatingly short. I never knew how hard it was to end a character's life in a respectful, noble way, but then again there is rarely a way to die respectfully in a fic like this.**

**Cookies to anyone who can name the few lines I took from the song of which this fic was named, seeing as I wrote this listening to it. Catchy, eh? (;**

**Happy almost-Halloween? I'm going as Sherlock. Well—technically I'm too old to go trick-or-treating. The last time I went a few years ago, all the doors told me that I was too old and did not give me candy (hah, you think I'm joking), but at least I can go to parties as Sherlock. I only need to find a John.**

**Enough about me. As always, my nano is on my profile along with other one-shots and an attempted parent!lock fic.**

**Thanks again,**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

**(But y'all can call me Allison)**

* * *

_When Noah was nine, he begged their mother for permission to play four square on the blacktop like "all the other kids." When she finally succumbed to his big eyes and hopeful smile, he was wrapped in a fraying tweed jacket and sent him off, though carefully watching him descend the path from the kitchen window._

_Noah returned thirty minutes later with a ripple of blood pooling from his nose and a nasty gash on his forehead._

"_Did those boys do that to you?" she yelled, taking him roughly by the shoulders._

_There was the sound of feet and Ace stumbled down the stairs with bed head and fogged irises._

"What_ are you crying about?"_

_Noah started to cry. It was awful, because Noah never cried his age, and he never cried silently. It was always wailing and snot and red cheeks, something that drove their mother insane and made Ace purse his lips, unsure of what to do._

_Their mom ran from the room and returned a moment later with a damp washcloth, wiping the blood from his forehead and nose and then placing it on his forehead. "I knew this was a bad idea," she mumbled._

"_I-I was walking home after the game, and—I—everything went black."_

"_What do you mean?" their mother asked frantically, searching her son's face._

_Ace sighed and hobbled down those last few steps to his younger brother. Noah looked at his family like the sun shone at their request, that the only reason he lived was because they were there for him—he was, unfortunately, solely dependent on the only people he'd ever met in his short life, and being so unsocialized, uneducated, and unworldly, he didn't seem to realize the world outside he was missing. So of course he didn't know why everything went black, or why their mother was scared, or why Ace didn't care at all, so he cried because crying was the only thing he was used to. Maybe if he hadn't been given the fate he had, he would be able to live on his own or act like a kid his age should._

_The worst part was how small he was, how fragile and breakable. His bones were prominent and jutting out of his skin, everything from his xylophone of ribs, to the beads of his spine, to the knob of his hips. His chest was concaved in while his clavicles pointed out from his collar. It was almost lucky that he didn't have friends—no one knew how gentle they had to be with the boy. One wrong push, one too-harsh punch to the arm—anything could damage him._

"_You fainted," Ace sighed. "And you hit the pavement. Look—there are scuff marks on your cheeks right there. Your eyes are unfocused. You're dizzy, no?"_

_Noah nodded. "It hurts."_

"_It would be strange if it didn't." He looked to his mother. "I'm guessing we can't exactly take him to the doctor?"_

_She narrowed her eyes, lips thin. "No."_

"Well _then," he muttered. "Looks like I'm giving you stitches."_

"_I'm not letting a ten-year-old give a nine-year-old stitches in his head. Don't be stupid."_

"_Do you have a better idea? I read a book with Peter on minor medical suture. I know how to do this better than you do."_

_She waved a hand. "Fine! But I hope I know what you're doing."_

_Ace took one of his mother's sewing needles and from the other room. He was sure to keep away from Noah while sterilizing it, knowing that if Noah saw the point, he would start to cry again._

"_Close your eyes," he said quietly, and when Noah obliged, he walked into the room. "This will hurt. But not much. The more you behave, the faster it will be over."_

_Noah clutched onto Ace's bed shirt with both of his hands, his knuckles turning white, eyes shut so tight that little wrinkles formed around his lids. His tiny, gaped teeth were bared in pain._

"_Please don't cry," Ace said, almost out of annoyance than any actual care. He didn't know what he would do if the boy started wailing again._

_Noah sniffled. "I-I-I'm not crying."_

"_Look it's just one more suture, okay? Just one. We're in it together. You and me all the way. Are you ready?"_

_Noah nodded as much as he could,_

Clip.

"_See! All over. Done."_

_Noah smiled as if it was the best news he'd heard yet, but despite the attitude, he did not let go of Ace, as if holding onto him tight enough, he'd be able to fall right through his body._

_-.-  
_

Ace was shoved violently up the steps to the hover craft. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of the fact he was falling through time and space, and red spots whirled across his eyes, and he didn't care where he went or who he met as long as he didn't let go.

Two men were holding him, one by the scruff of his hair, the other by his arms. It was pointless, really. They acted like he was going to protest, to run away. Where? Off the side of a hovercraft to fall fifty feet to his death? How awful.

"So let me guess," he said, "you caught me. You caught me so quick that I bet the cameras didn't even get to see. I'll be up on the fallen tonight, right? One of those people whose deaths were too insignificant to be played. I wonder what you all must be thinking right now."

The guards said nothing. He was led into a room that looked nothing like the capitol train. It was dark, the walls were windowless, and worst of all it looked almost like an empty car garage. Scraps of metal, building tools, and broken cogs littered the ground with fragments of wood and sharp material. As he walked, the pieces stirred. His feet cleared a path for him in the carpet of waste.

Then the lights flickered on, and Ace saw just how big the place was. It ascended higher than any ceiling he'd ever seen, higher than was possible Chains hung from the ceiling. In the center was a pedestal with a chair on it, manacles attached to the arms. Was his eyes playing tricks on him? Was that it?

"I _told _you men not tonight!" The voice was husky and loud, especially as it rebounded off the walls and reverberated on the arches. The man who had confronted Ace the morning of the arena stood leaning over a metal railing a few stories up, looking down on them with a half-angry half-amused look on his face. "Take him to his room; he'll be off'd tomorrow, but for now, we're not permitted to use the lights until morning. Honestly! Do you know how much it costs to run this place per hour?!"

The man who held Ace's hair grunted and steered him away.

He found himself in a bedroom, one of lesser quality than he'd seen. It had one single twin bed in the center with a nightstand and a few folded up quilts on the dresser. The lights were inside the ceiling. Another door led to a bathroom. The shower had no curtain or rod.

Ace was aware that it was set up so he could not hurt himself. No rods to hang himself from, nothing to sharp to slash a vein or artery. He could have always come up with something creative, but his limbs ached, and he didn't have the motivation to care about something as mundane as his life.

The door shut behind him. His eyes found the little camera in less than ten seconds, poking out of the corner of the wall. Ace sighed and laid down on the bed, his legs hanging off the side.

He thought, _I'm going to die tomorrow._

He thought, _I wonder what Noah is doing._

He thought, _They're going to find him, and they will kill him—Mom, too, probably._

Ace swallowed and leaned back. It was the first time in a week that he had been in complete silence, without the sound of wind rustling, the _pat pat pat_ of snow whirling around him, a howl in the wind. He couldn't hear Isla or Ezra's snoring close by, instead utter, utter silence.

Suddenly he could hear every little insignificant creak as if the knob of life had been dialed up: his heartbeat hammering in his chest; the cranks in his brain slowly grinding together; his breath puffing faster in and out; the sound of his throat as he swallowed frantically, mouth too dry. He gasped, bolting upright—he couldn't breathe.

His hand flew to neck, coughing, hacking. This—this breathlessness was overwhelming. Ace ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower. It sprayed out on top of him, wetting his clothes and hair, dribbling from his mouth and splatting onto the linoleum floor in loud thumps. He waited under there for minutes at a time until the hot water fogged the bathroom mirror and his heart beat steadied in his chest.

Quietly, he stripped of his clothes and threw them on the floor. His bones were visible through his skin, a product of his diet the last week or so.

It was like rain—they were one of the few people that didn't have a shower in District Two, but unlike some of the other districts, their running water in the bathtubs and sinks made up for it.

When he stepped out, he looked into the mirror—plastered onto the wall and covered with Plexiglas so he couldn't use it as a weapon. His lips were red and his face was pale. His raven hair stuck to his forehead and the nape of his neck, and his cheeks were hollow, giving him a starved, vampire-ish look. Andromeda was still on his neck is swirling calligraphy, and the vines and flowers still grew on his arms and torso.

Ace had never been a religious person, never believed in anyone but himself and the occasional passerby. His faith did not waver like a normal teenager's as much as it stayed the same at the bottom of the scale. The idea that anyone was watching out for him up above was unthinkable, and if there was someone, he thought, they must not be doing their job right.

"_You know what I say to the man who's occupation is handing out bad luck?" his father said every morning. "Take a vacation."_

But weren't people supposed to feel something saintly in the waking hours of their death? Some feeling calm and quiet while others were twenty four-seven, non-stop on their feet, "_no rest for the wicked"_ kind of thing. Something about entering God's kingdom, being with him for the first time, looking his best for the Lord. His father had.

"_I can see myself in God's light," the man had mumbled, laying down with his dark hair—the exact color of Ace's—splayed across the pillow. "And damn, I look good."_

Ace did not want to admit that, besides, a small panic in his chest, he felt nothing.

-.-

Ace woke to familiar eyes—chocolate brown, warm, and lined with kohl.

She scrunched up her nose "Oh God, you're naked! Oh, please just cover up!"

"_Mmmmmppphhhgg_," Ace replied, but rolled over to find a pillow. "You know," he added after a moment, "You didn't need to come in uninvited."

"I am required," Genevieve said, but this time her voice was soft. "Ace, darling—"

So that was it. They did know who he was. They all did.

"So soon?" he asked.

She sniffed. "I'm come baring your clothes for the—erm—I—"

And then she started crying.

"Oh, oh Ace!" she sobbed, reaching to wrap her arms around his skinny shoulders. "This isn't fair. I'm so sorry!"

"Don't bother, Genevieve. I knew that this was going to happen." He paused. "Did… did they…?"

"As far as I know, they have not killed Noah or your mother, Delilah. I don't even think they have attempted to."

Ace let out the air he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Damn, okay. Yes, that's good. Yes."

"You've already played on the fallen, as well as those from six. Your family thinks you're dead, Ace. Everyone does."

"When did they find out, exactly?"

"Your eyes. The gamemakers were recording you killing them, as and they did, they saw your eyes. One of the makers told President Winston, and he looked up your family's history on the main computer. They needed to get you out of there as quickly as possible."

Ace said nothing.

She sighed and kissed his forehead. "This is dreadfully poetic, _querido_, but some things are meant to be. Here, put these on."

She turned to leave, but before she closed the door, he heard her say, "I'm sorry about your friends, Ace."

On the bed was a pair of black drawstring pants and a black T-Shirt. Ace caught his breath again when he saw it was his execution outfit, the same one Genevieve had been wearing a second ago.

-.-

They sat him down in the chair he saw the other day, and he tried not to look as Genevieve, his own cousin, had been placed directly in the chair in front of him.

"She didn't do anything. You have to let her live," he growled.

The man with the white hair—the one he'd talked to that morning on the train, the one who yelled at him the night before—just quirked one side of his mouth. "She gave you the contacts to trick us—she is just as much guilty as you are, as well as your parents and brother—the real one."

"My father is dead," Ace spat, "and he has been since I was six."

The man tutted. "One less I have to deal with."

They injected Genevieve first, sticking the needle in her secure arm. She has stopped crying, but her eyes were still sad. There wasn't much a change from her life and her death—she slumped a bit, seemed to get heavier, and her eyes unfocused, but nothing extraordinary like you saw in the games or on TV. In real life, you just died, and that was that.

The man moved over to Ace took a new needle. "Now, our special little boy. Do you know why I do these injections myself, Ace? It's to make sure that they are done right. Real executioners are a bit fickle, don't you think? Untrustworthy—how to I put my faith in someone who takes away lives, Brickham? But you see, I do them slowly, precisely. Only _fools_ rush in."

Ace didn't need to ask who the fool was. "Bite me," he muttered.

"So sassy," he said, and stuck Ace with the needle.

It was cold, but not painful. That much the Capitol had to offer: we will kill you, but we will make it effortless. Isn't that all anyone could ever ask for?

* * *

_**Review!**_


	14. Chapter 14

**So this chapter was a lot harder and heavier to write than I expected, but I'm okay with it. It did take a week longer than I promised, but to be fair, I **_**am**_** sick. I figured I might as well write something to make me feel better, you know? Plus, I've spent most of my writing time working on my NaNoWriMo, which I'm freakishly excited for.**

**I've finally decided what it's going to be about.**

**I have never been more excited to write something in my whole life.**

**If anyone needs a NaNo partner, I'm so open for it. This is going to be great. I love my main character with a burning passion, I really do. His name is Jude. (It just fit, I dunno. You picture him and you think, "Yeah, he's such a Jude. Not a Kevin or a Taylor. Just a Jude."**

**As always, my NaNo 2011 is linked on my profile, as well as my tumblr, and a lot of other fanfictions, etc.**

**This is the second to last chapter, I've decided. The next one is the last one. Doesn't that seem so weird? I think so.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**xAllison**

* * *

Red meant too many things to too many people. The brain associated a flashing red with emergencies, red carpets for stardom and VIPs, a lighter red to femininity and a more earthly red to masculinity.

A deep red symbolizes joy and prosperity and good fortune to certain cultures, while to others it symbolized horrible, devilish purposes. It was the main color of Valentine's Day, the color associated with love as well as war.

There was an old Chinese legend that talked of a red thread God tied around two of his creation's ankles, two people who were destined to meet and help one another prosper in a certain way. Some called them soul mates, lovers, other's called them the best of friends. The string would stretch, tangle, and knot, but it should never break, and the creation's life would be dedicated to finding their other half.

The color red was passionate. It _could_ have been a good color, too.

However, to Ace, red meant dying and blood and gore. It meant watching people expire and knowing that their ache was in your favor. The more others died, the more you got to live. That was the way the world worked.

That was the first thing Ace thought when he woke up and saw only red, shivering uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. In actuality, he didn't even know _what_ hurt, only that something did. He hoped for death—anything would be better than the pain rolling up and down his spine, his limbs aching, his chest with a heavy weight, and his lungs, which frankly sucked at being lungs.

He coughed, and it got stuck in his throat, making him choke. He gasped for air.

"Breathe," said a calm voice. "Try not to move so much, I think you've got a collapsed rib cage. Your bleeding isn't as bad as it was, though. It's stopped, but you've lost a lot. You're probably going to feel woozy, but I need you to stay with me. Can you do that, Ace? Can you stay with me?"

Ace didn't think he'd felt a stronger emotion in his life, this need and desire for everything to end. But the pain reminded him that he could feel it, and feeling it reminded him that he was, in fact, alive. The previous events flooded into the gates of his consciousness, and he started to cry for no other reason than his confusion.

"Shhh, Ace…," said the strained voice again, and this time, Ace recognized it.

"Micah…," he murmured. "Micah—Genevieve has—"

"I know," he replied, sounding sadly resigned. "I watched it."

Ace coughed, and a ripple of blood fell from his lips, tasting metallic and awful. He peeled open his eyes. Micah's face was hovering over him, only half lit by a sliver of light coming from a cracked door.

"But—But I'm alive. Maybe she—"

His face, if possible, seemed to fall even more. "She's dead, Ace. Nothing will change that."

"Then why the hell am I alive?!" Ace rasped, and Micah shushed him.

"Quiet!" he snapped. "It's too late to save my sister, and I get that, but right now you have to shut up, because you're the last person I can save."

Ace leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. He could feel the hum of the hovercraft underneath his body. He craned his neck—a difficult feat, given the pain—and saw that he was lying on the cold metal ground of a room filled with boxes, bags, suitcases, and carryon items: A storage room. Recognizing that he could finally understand something made him feel better, but the unknown still bothered him.

"Am I sitting in a…?"

"Body bag. Everyone thinks you're dead, Ace, and you should be. But I knew that you were only temporarily passed out the moment the needle was injected, so I waited until you were put into the bag and thrown in here to make sure you were okay. I know a way out, Ace. We're going home."

"How did you even get on the ship?"

He pursed his lips. Micah kept himself busy by pushing Ace's head down, holding his neck stable and unmovable, so that Ace could not see the rest of the room (to his anger), but he could also feel less of the pain (to his pleasure).

"They were taking my sister aboard, Ace, and I knew why. Did you think I wasn't going to stow away? She's family. So are you."

Ace closed his eyes so tight he saw colors behind his lids. He focused on them: blue; yellow; green; red. He opened them.

"I'm alive."

"I'm keeping it that way. As soon as the hovercraft lands, we'll be in the Capitol. This is the ship they normally use for transporting cargo: makeup, clothes, fabrics, textiles, food, seeds, et cetera. It also, however, doubles as the room they use to kill off whoever pissed them off. You know them, always trying to make a statement." It almost sounded as though he was trying to laugh it off, but to Ace it seemed more that Micah was holding back tears. "I'll hide in a duffle bag or something, and you'll be brought to the hospital morgue. That's why you're so beat up, Ace. They don't know what to do with the bodies they kill, so they mangle them so bad afterwards the autopsy doesn't have a correct way to detect the poison. You would have been cremated, had you really died. I'll come back for you and we'll escape. How's that? I'll bring you home."

Ace didn't respond. Was this his happy ending? Was it all that happy at all, starting a new life, even though his old one wasn't much?

He was quiet for a long time, letting it sink in. He was right in the end. The Hunger Games _was_ temporary. But this wasn't what he meant, and it didn't make him feel better.

Then, something occurred to him.

"What about Noah?"

Micah turned his head just slightly. "I don't know. I don't know what's happened to him since, but we'll find out. Promise."

He thought they were going to be quiet again—he shut his eyes, preparing to focus his mind on anything but the way his chest felt broken, his rips caving in. People always said a broken heart hurt worse than any other pain.

_Literally_, Ace thought.

_Literally, it does._

"Is Anastasia really dead?" he whispered, unsure if Micah would hear, but he did.

"Yes," he said softly, brushing his hair from the younger boy's face, sticking to his face with sweat and blood.

Ace squeezed his eyes tighter. "I guess I can't say I didn't know it all along. She was always going to die one day."

"How could you say that? The whole time we were on the train or in the Capitol building, you repeatedly told us that Anastasia was more than she seemed, that people needed to give her more credit—that, most importantly, she was brilliant and wonderful, and the only person who could evoke any sort of positive _feeling_in you. And then you always bluntly say she never had a chance. That she was pathetic and weak, and her chances of survival were slim. You said it was a pity."

"I never said she was only one who could evoke positive feeling in me. I can do that myself."

"No you can't. You think so, but that's not true, this is. It's true. Besides your brother, of course."

"_And _you. You saved me. I feel grateful."

"I'm honored."

"And you sister," Ace said more earnestly. "Genevieve; she was always nice to me. But I never said anything."

"Maybe next time you should tell that to someone while they're alive."

Tears stung his eyes. Emotions! How horrible. How awful.

"I meant everything I said about Anastasia, okay? She _is_more. Sometimes people win for their brain, or for brawn, or because the Capitol sees them and knows their eyes will look pretty on the big screen, so they make it easier. People live and die, but Death is not prejudice, and Anastasia was going to lose whether or not she could make me smile. I knew that. We all knew that. But she is nice and likable, and I wanted companionship—don't _look_ at me like that! She _is_ brilliant in her own way, and lovely despite her many, many flaws—Goodness, did she have flaws! She didn't deserve to die the way she did, and I don't want those qualities to go unnoticed. So yeah, she is pathetic when juxtapose to those Games, but when she's standing alone, she's… She's herself. She _was_herself. Okay?"

Ace was gasping. What he really wanted was to sleep, so he couldn't feel the blood seeping through his clothes or Micah's cool hands wiping the sweat from his neck.

"…You speak about her like she's still here."

"It takes some getting used to."

"I wish it didn't."

-.-

Ace tried not to gasp when he woke up to the jostling of the bag he was in. Something connected with the base of his rips and he bit his lip to stop the cry that would follow.

Voices were talking over each other in gruff, low growls.

"You take that one, I'll take the girl. The ambulance is outside. They'll take care of the bodies."

"As long as I don't have to see them in the mortuary, ain't that right?"

"Just do your jobs," said the irritated voice. "No one's payin' ya to yap. Not that we're gettin' paid at all…"

"Aye, Dale! What about this load of shit ove' here?"

"Nah, the old man is bringing those cargo crates to the other side of town. You gotta haul 'em outside, m'kay?"

"But they're heavy!" the man complained.

"Like I care!" Dale rumbled, and there was a scuffle of feat almost like a playful attack.

The other man mumbled something profane under his breath, and it was silent.

Dale carried Ace farther than he expected until Ace landed with a thump in the back of a car—the ambulance.

"What do we have here?" another person said, this time lighter, with the air of a man who'd had a long day.

"Poor guy tried to beat up his girlfriend. Not a good result."

"_Two_causalities? That's unusual."

"Comin' straight from a Shakespeare novel!" Dale laughed, and a few other voices joined in—three, at least. Ace rolled his eyes but otherwise grimaced. So Micah was headed to the other side of town. That wouldn't take him too long to get to Ace.

"Throw the girl in there with 'im. The hospitals not far. We'll find their families in no time."

-.-

What to do when his bag was unzipped was definitely one of the more rough patches of their plan. He stayed as silent and still as he could despite the agony of the ride over, but he knew that a doctor, who probably had years of training and skills, would not be fooled from something so amateur. Shivers still ran body, and he was trembling.

"You can open your eyes, kid. We're alone."

The doctor—Dr. Reynolds, according to his lanyard—was thin and balding with a tuff of thin white hair and hands that shook when he moved them. His eyes were green and red-rimmed.

"What's your story?"

"Please," Ace mumbled. "Please, it hurts."

"I'll bet. You've got a lot of injuries. But I thought you didn't want to get caught?"

"She was my cousin!" Ace coughed. "She wasn't my girlfriend. Why am I alive? They poisoned me—why am I alive?"

"Lay down, boy, ain't nothing gonna happen to you here. I'mma help, and I'll getcha home."

-.-

Dr. Reynolds clicked his tongue. Ace was wearing a hospital gown. His cuts were cleaned up, stinging from the disinfectant, and his hair was wet from the shower he allowed Ace. Bruises littered his body, and his arm, still broken from the dog attack, was wrapped in a cast. His chest was wrapped also.

"Look at these X-Rays!" he said, and clicked his tongue again. The doctor sighed and turned around. "Your injuries aren't as bad as some people I've seen worse come from the Capitol, that I can tell you. Your rib cage isn't collapsed, but your L7 is broken for sure—a clean break. That will help it heal more easily, but it also explains your difficulty breathing. I'm afraid there isn't much I can do after this besides prescribe some pain meds."

Ace stared at the linoleum floor, bleached white and smelling sterile. Everything was so _bright_, bold. For a second he thought of the life Noah would have had in a hospital, trapped inside a bed with rails and being spoon-fed every meal. Would his life been better or worse? Would he be healthy? "I don't have any money. I can't pay you."

"Do I look like the type of person who is planning on taking your dough?"

Ace looked up. Reynolds was smiling, lips pursed slightly.

"Look, boy, I have the Capitol sending me people in body bags all the time, and sometimes they miss one, okay? Sometimes a person isn't exactly _dead_, and who am I to deny them life? I hate the Capitol as much as anyone. Back in '57, I was one of the protesters! But grew, I learned the more I protested, the more people died, and I found I could save more lives taking the bodies and saving a few than I ever did with a white picket sign."

"But I'm not like them," Ace said slowly. "I wasn't beaten to death. I was injected and _then_ beaten. Like Genevieve…"

Reynolds shut off the light of his scans and sat down. Without saying anything, he took off his small, gold-wired glasses and polished them on an old rag. He looked weary and tired, an old man who should have retired years ago but couldn't. Ace almost felt sorry.

"You were not like the others," he agreed. "Your test results show a toxin running through your body, but it is not like the toxin the autopsy found in your cousin. It is something a lot healthier, and it fought off the poison before it had a chance to hit your heart. You passed out, though. The effects were enough to cause temporary unconsciousness. Can you think of anything you were given before you were captured?"

_._

"_This medicine would cure any disease that you may have, that way you wouldn't die of it in the arena, and everything will be fair."_

_._

_"The medicine is new. Only been tested on animals, too. It's practically a prototype right now, okay? I'm not going to lie to you, there may be some side effects, but they will be painless. Even if you were totally disease free, it wouldn't hurt, and the Capitol is going to force it on you whether you reject it or not._

_._

"_What kind of illness did you have before you were given the prototyped medication?"_

.

So Genevieve saved Ace's life.

And in doing so, ended her own.

"I'm going to be sick," Ace said dizzily. He bent over the side of the bench and vomited on the tile, stomach contracting. It reeked of bile but wasn't too bad.

"Oh, boy," the old man mumbled under his breath. "You ain't got enough of anythin' in you to throw up, kid. Wipe ya mouth."

"I'm sorry," Ace said and was so surprised by his comment, he shut his eyes and laid back. "I'm so sorry."

"You're in another place, Ace. This isn't my scene. C'mon. I'll help sneak you out. There isn't much I can do for you now."

-.-

Reynolds gave Ace his jacket. It was long enough to cover the slit in the back of his patient gown and it kept him warm from the wind. Slight sun shone through the cloud and hit his face.

Ace hadn't felt that in a while.

People milled around, carrying purses and smoking cigarettes, life moving on as it always did. He sat on the very edge of a bench outside, and when Micah came outside, he breathed again.

"I want to go home," he said. "I want to see Noah."

Micah smiled. "I promised didn't I?"

Ace nodded.

"You're looking better."

"A broken arm, a broken rib, and a bruised _everything_. A concussion, some series ankle sprains, and a few cuts in need of stitches. I feel like Frankenstein."

"Just be thankful you're _feeling_. C'mon, I brought some money on the aircraft. I thought maybe Genevieve and I could use it to go home…" He ran a hand through his dark hair and fixed his glasses. "Anyways…"

They walked to the end of the street. People gave them looks, but thankfully no one recognized him. Ace hadn't looked in a mirror, but he suspected he appeared far from his usual self. The Capitol had mangled him enough.

Micah hailed a cab and, surprisingly, slid into the back with Ace instead of taking the front. For some reason, Ace was eternally grateful.

He could picture Noah sitting in their home with a cup of tea in his hand, reading a novel from Peter's Books. He thought Ace was dead…

The place he had once hated now seemed like a safe haven. He longed for the days that he sat, bored out of his mind, in a room right across from the living room where Noah slept, where he could hear his breathing through the thin walls. He used to keep the doors open at night, just to make sure he was still breathing at all.

Even his mother, who he hated with a passion before the Games, seemed more loving then when he left.

As they pulled up near the borders, the cabbie told them, "This is as far as I can go if yer goin' to the Districts. You're on foot from here."

"It's not that far a walk," Micah said politely. "Thank you."

They paid the driver with all the money they'd brought and walked (or hobbled) over towards the sidewalk. He could see the sign that marked _District Two_ in the distance.

-.-

His house looked a lot the same to any passersby, but Ace observed more clearly. The garden was unattended, his Mother's daffodils hanging loose and dead, petals flaking on the dry soil. The lawn was littered with leaves of brown, gold, and red. Fall has landed in the District with the force of a blowing wind, hitting anything in its path. The door to his house was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

It was unusually quiet in there, the lights off. His heart pounded. Surely they couldn't have—no, Micah said that he didn't—and Genevieve _promised_!

"They're here," Micah said. "Look—the kettle's boiling."

As they walked further into the house, Ace's anxiety jumped up a notch. He navigated the familiar passageways and halls until he rounded a corner and saw, of all people, his mother. She was crying.

"Mom?" he asked, and she looked up. It made her cry more.

He was taken around the neck in a tight hug that hurt his ribs, but he didn't care. His mother was frail and bony in his arms, as if she hadn't been eating, and her hair was thinning. A few gray strands tangled in with the blonde. He'd never been more relieved to have the woman.

She let go reluctantly, only to pull Micah into the same embrace.

"Oh!" she sobbed. "Oh, I can't believe it. I—I—Oh, Ace!"

He quirked a smile. "Where's Noah?"

* * *

_**Review!**_


	15. Chapter 15

**So this is it! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I'm wicked excited to continue writing for **_**Solivagant. **_**Still, I never thought I could actually **_**finish **_**a fanfiction. I feel really great! Thanks to everyone who read & review anything I've ever written on here, especially KellBellx, who had never failed to comment one of my works with lengthy reviews! It always makes my day. c:**

**xAllison**

"How long?" Micah asked because Ace couldn't.

His mother, Delilah, had been carding her delicate, wrinkled hands through his hair lovingly, like she had never done before, and there was an underlying irritation he felt, the kind of emotion that nestled into a knot in the back on his throat. He almost forgot about it.

Almost.

"About a week after Ace left," she said carefully. Her voice was fragile and shaky, with an air of someone who had time to grieve but did not completely recover. Did one recover from something like that? Ace didn't know. He didn't think he would ever have to, yet in the past month or so he knew more—more than his old person, more than his mother, more than Micah, in some ways. He had always prided himself on knowing _more_, and yet now he wanted nothing other than to numb his brain, to wipe his memories and emotions and live like a shell. The strain that had been placed on his shoulder, on his brain at that, did not dwindle when he arrived in his district, as he had hoped. Instead, it stayed very constant. Anxiety tied itself to him anywhere it could: the nape of his neck; in the knot of his shoelaces; the arch of his brow; and in the concave of his slightly curled fringe.

_Wrong, _he thought, and then he said it aloud. The word was so _weird_. Weirdly spelled, weirdly said, the roll of his tongue when spoken. Foreign. He did not like the word.

"Wrong what, darling?" Delilah whispered. Ace turned his head and then pulled it back in shock when he noticed the water in his mother's pale eyes. She was still crying from before.

"Everything," he said honestly. "Because you're lying."

"I'm not lying," she told him. She seemed to have expected this. "Darling, I'm not."

"Don't call me darling!" he nearly growled. "You're lying to me and to Micah! What did you want, more attention? Is that why you're doing this? Where is he; where is my brother?!"

She pursed her lips and for a second looked like herself. It was there like a flash, a memory of what she used to be, all curled fists and sharp retorts and days alone in his room, because that face_, that face_, had always been the crux of his problem and his loneliness and his bitter reflection of the world. Or maybe the problem was himself...

But it smoothed out. Her wrinkles and frown lines, the little cracks around the corners of her eyes seemed to lift from her face and instead he saw a child. There was something very belittling about watching his mother cry. She'd always been so mean, but maybe she had just been strong. He always somehow felt she was invincible from anything, even from Noah's disease.

-.-

The headstone was marble white, carved cleverly with curves at the top and a single word written on it: Brickham.

Ace thought that was probably the worst part of it: he couldn't have his name printed on it, because for all anyone knew, it was Ace down there six feet under. When someone died in the games, your family didn't exactly get the body, so who really knew who was sitting in that box? And more importantly: Who but the Brickhams really cared?

This was his proof. This was the evidence. His brother _really_ was gone.

The grass had just started to grow back in front of the stone, a long, patchy rectangle of dirt. Ace laid next to the patch with his back on the grass and his face towards the sky. It was slightly obscured by the thick canopy of leaves, like a curtain of different golds and reds, but through the veil he could see the blue sky tinged white with puffy clouds and slight rays of sun.

"Oh, Noah," he said to himself. "I tried to take your place, and yet you still wouldn't let me."

-.-

Micah and Ace had told Delilah about their situation. They had to find a new home as quickly as possible before the Capitol found them. He watched as they scrambled for their things, his mother packing her possessions and then a few of Noah's. Ace didn't have anything he wanted to take, not really. He had a few articles of clothing in a bag around his shoulder, but everything else made his stomach turn. One thing he did take, though, was the engraved pocketwatch Micah had given him before the games. Ace had been sure that it would be somewhat beneficial throughout his journey, yet he had not used it once. It was only then he realized that the pocketwatch had been more beneficial in keeping his sanity and reminding him of home than helping him keep time. Ace turned it over in his palm. OLIVER BRICKHAM. He thought of another family member he never got to see.

Ace felt somewhat incomplete, like even as they stood in front of their home for so many years and the mess he'd been in was coming to a close, he still didn't think it was over. There was something _missing_, something other than Noah and Anastasia and Isla and Genevieve and Ezra. Something other than those who died in the games, and something other than the mundane finality of their personal massacre.

He found himself, mindlessly, in front of a large mansion in the center of town. All of the town officials, mayors and governors alike, got a home in a very large, gated community. It did not take him long to find an alternate route into the neighborhood and he wandered until he found a small mailbox with the gold letters nailed on, spelling out RICKSHIRE.

It was a pretty home with a cut lawn, painted white shingles, and an easy façade. Ace stumbled up the driveway in his own non-alcoholic intoxication and rapped his knuckles against the door, hitting the doorbell twice.

A tall man entered. Ace knew him. He'd _seen _him. On the television, around the city.

And it is clear from the man's reaction that he has seen Ace, too.

Suddenly, he is being pulled by the collar of his shirt into the house and was wrapped so quickly in a hug that he didn't have time to breathe. This man was big, broad, and stern looking, but in a moment of weakness, his bear-hands clutched to Ace's jacket and he was crying slightly into the smaller boy's hair.

"Oh, God," the man sobbed. "Oh, God. You're him. You were with my little girl."

"Sir, I—"

"Come, sit, son. Sit down. I need—wait here."

The man pushed Ace into a very soft, white seat and ushered out of the room. He returned moments later with a small, childish woman that looked too much like Anastasia than to be possible. Her skinny limbs and small dark eyes reminded him fiercely of the girl he'd gotten to know. The tangle of dark hair on down her shoulders curled slightly and gathered at a point at the small of her back.

She quickly covered her mouth with her hands and ran to Ace, throwing her arms around him. Just as breakable, she was as fragile in his arms as Anastasia was.

"Please, please, sit and relax. Oh, dear. Oh, lord."

"I just wanted to—," Ace cut himself off. What had he wanted? He didn't know. Ace had felt that lack of closure and in a moment of panic thought these polite, regal people could help him.

He cleared his throat and started again. "I just wanted to meet you guys before I left."

"Where are you going?" her father said. They both sat forward on the couch in front of him.

"The Capitol is after me, because frankly I should be dead. They, um, injected some kind of poison to stop my heart in their hovercraft, but it didn't work successfully, and I was snuck out of the premises by a friend who was, um, working there. The point is, I'm leaving to keep my family safe, but I wanted to make sure you knew I am alive. I wanted to meet you."

"Why would the Capitol want to kill you?"

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Noah?"

Ace shook his head. His hands were splayed on his lap, and he tapped his fingers on the holes of his jeans five times in ten second intervals. Always five times. Always ten second intervals.

"My name is Ace Brickham. Noah was my brother. He died shortly after I took his place from some undiagnosed disease he was born with. I got home but hours ago."

The woman gave an intake of breath. "And you're leaving so soon?"

"I told you. I have to keep my family safe."

"This is ridiculous," her father said, hands balled into tight fists.

"We'll do fine on our own. Trust me. I just wanted to let you know that your daughter… your daughter didn't… she didn't die in vain." Ace swallowed loudly under the intense gaze of a dead girl's heartbroken parents. "She was thinking of you."

"We know… We know. Trust us."

"Should I get Jamie?" the woman asked. She made a move as if to get up, but the man stopped her, his hands gently pulling her back down.

"He isn't ready." He turned back to Ace, who was staring at the ground regulating his breathing.

Ace felt as though he could see more now, the way the world reacted to certain things, the way the leaves moved because of the wind, the way his hair tangled when he ran his hands through it, the way the carpet got darker every time one of Anastasia's mother's tears hit it.

"If there is anything you need, please, _please, _just ask," they said in a tanged monotone.

Ace looked up. "There _is_ one thing."

-.-

Their new home was small and cottage-like, alone in the woods and covered with vines and ivy. It gave no impression that it was _old_—its paint was fresh and crisp, and the walls were not chipped or crumbling. It radiated _new_, but it also radiated _away_. Micah, Ace, and Delilah were completely cut off from civilization, alone in the forest, in no particular district. The home was built and insured by the Richshires.

"This place is so _cool!_" Jamie said. He had the air of Anastasia, happy and likable, but his face was more like his father's. He pranced around the woods and snapped branches and twigs beneath his sneakers.

"We didn't let him watch the games. He knows he doesn't have his sister, but he doesn't know exactly _why_," his father said. They were off to the side, watching over the scene as Delilah and Micah heaved their bags into the building.

Ace breathed heavily. "You know there are tapes in some old archives you can get."

"Maybe one day," he replied, like he wasn't so sure of it. "I don't want him to have to watch it."

"I never got to see…" Ace mumbled. "This means… a lot."

"You did a lot." The man's, William's, voice is strong. "I want you to know that. This temporary stay… it's the least I could do. And I'll make it my quest to ensure that you will not have to stay here forever. One day, I'll get you a proper home with proper neighbors and a proper lawn…"

"William?"

"Yes?"

"Who won the games?"

There was a long pause. "The girl from four," William said finally. "No one really expected it."

He couldn't remember her. All the details seemed to blur, and whatever he did know of the girl did not seem a vital part of his memories anymore. He clung more to the memories of people like Anastasia and Noah than of this winner, who he made a private goal to seek out one day.

Ace didn't want to think about the words he couldn't say, so instead he helped push the bags in and tidy about. It was a nice place, three rooms, and two bathrooms, all one floor with a tiny living area and connected kitchen.

"Oh, this is… this is lovely," Delilah crooned, touching the countertop with renewed hope. She had light in her eyes Ace had never seen before. "Things are going to be alright from now on, I can feel it."

"You can come visit us or your old home whenever, though I do think you should contact us beforehand so we can make sure that you don't get caught. This whole search will blow over soon, it always does. When that point arrives, we will come get you," the woman said. _Aurora_, she told him. Aurora.

William went and put his arm around her. Jamie ran to their feet and grinned up. "Can I come here again?!"

William quirked a sad smile. "Of course, buddy. We'll be back soon."

The whole day passed in a blur. The Rickshires stayed for hours after their arrival, making sure they were settled and happy with enough food in their fridge and clothes in their drawers. Delilah had stayed attached to Ace at the hip, cradling his head in her arms, telling him how much she loved him. (It was something no one had done before, and while he felt irritated with an overwhelming desire to push her away, he couldn't. Partly because he knew she needed it, and partly because, despite how much he hated to admit so, he needed it, too.)

"You're so different," she said, half fondly and half miserably.

Ace shrugged indifferently. He didn't know if he felt different, just that he _felt_, which was more than he could have asked for.

It wouldn't be until later that night, as Ace laid awake in his new bed, would he let himself think of his brother. When he closed his eyes, he pictured the sky he saw above his brother's grave and the canopy of fall trees, and the colorful leaves littering the ground with a grace anyone could have appreciated. He remembered, with a smile, how much his brother loved autumn, and he fell asleep with the name on his lips like a last hope: _Noah_.

**The End**


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